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“I never noticed he was so rangy,” Mike told me, when he’d sized up the new arrival. “Say, this guy looks good. He’s split plumb to the larynx and I bet he can run, for all of that wind-shield.”

I noticed that Mike was pretty grave when he come back in the tent, and more than once that day I caught him lookin’ at the champeen, sort of studyin’ him out. But for that matter this new party was gettin’ his full share of attention; everywhere he went there was a trail of kids at his heels, and every time he opened his mouth he made a hit with the grown folks. The women just couldn’t keep their eyes offen him, and I seen that Mike was gettin’ pretty sore.

In the evenin’ he made a confession that tipped off the way his mind was workin’. “This is the first time I ever felt nervous before a race,” said he. “Mebbe it’s because it’s goin’ to be my last race; mebbe it’s because that Injun knows me and ain’t scared of me. Anyhow, I’m scared of him. That open-faced, Elgin-movement buck has got me tickin’ fast.”

“That ain’t what’s got your goat,” I told him.

“Your cooin’ dove is dazzled by that show of wealth, and you know it.”

“Hell! She’s just curious, that’s all. She’s just a kid. I–I wish I’d of known who he was when I treated him. I’d of drove a horse-shoe nail in his knee.”

But all the same Mike looked worried.

It rained hard that night, and the next morning the grass was pretty wet. Mike tried it, first thing, and come back grinnin’ till the top of his head was an island.

“That sod is so slippery old Flyin’ Cloud can’t get a good stride in his moccasins. Me, I can straddle out and take holt with my spikes. Them spikes is goin’ to put us on easy street. You see! I don’t care how good he is, they’re goin’ to give me four hundred head of broncs and a cute little pigeon to look out for ’em. Me, I’m goin’ to lay back and learn to play the guitar. I’m goin’ to learn it by note.”

“You sure got the makin’s of a squaw-man,” I told him. “Seems like I’ve over-read your hand. I used to think you had somethin’ in you besides a appetite, but I was wrong. You’re plumb cultus, Mike.”

“Don’t get sore,” he grinned. “I got my chance to beat the game and I’m goin’ to take it. I can’t run foot-races, and win ’em, all my life. Some day I’ll step in my beard and sprain my ankle. Ambition’s a funny thing. I got the ambition to quit work. Besides, she–you know–she’s got a dimple you could lay your finger in. You’d ought to hear her say ‘Emmike’; it’s certainly cute.”

We bet everything we had–everything except that pinto pony and the cream-colored mare. I held them two out, for I figgered we was goin’ to need ’em and need ’em bad, if my scheme worked out.

The course–it was a quarter-mile, straight-away–was laid out along the bottom-land where the grass was thick and short. Me and the chief and his girl set on a blanket among the little piles of silver, and the rest of the merry villagers lined up close to the finish-line. We white men had been the prime attraction up till now, but it didn’t take me long to see that we wasn’t any more. Them people was all wrapped up in the lad with the gold name-plate, and they was rootin’ for him frantic. Last thing he done was to give his eighteen-carat squaw-catcher the once-over with his buckskin buffer, then he shined it at the chief’s girl and trotted down to the startin’-line. I noticed that she glued her big-and-liquids on him and kept ’em there.

It was beautiful to watch those two men jockey for a start; the Injun was lean and hungry and mighty smart–but Mike was smarter still. Of course he got the jump.