Cow-Country by B. M. Bower (best color ereader txt) 📗

running the men of Little Lost gathered round him and offered advice and encouragement, and even volunteered to lend him money if he needed it. But Bud told them to put up their own bets, and never to worry about him. Their advice and their encouragement, however, he accepted as cheerfully as they were given.

“Think yuh can beat Skeeter, young feller?” Pop shambled up to inquire anxiously, his beard brushing Bud's shoulder while he leaned close. “Remember what I told ye. You stick by me an' I'll stick by you. You shook on it, don't forgit that, young feller.”

Bud had forgotten, but he made haste to redeem his promise. “Last Sunday, Pop, I had to play it alone. To-day-well, if you want to make an honest dollar, you know what to do, don't you?”

“Sho! I'm bettin' on yore horse t'day, an' mind ye, I want to see my money doubled! But that there lameness in his left hind ankle—I don't see but what that kinda changes my opinion a little mite. You shore he won't quit on ye in the race, now? Don't lie to ole Pop, young feller!”

“Say! He 's the gamest little horse in the state, Pop. He never has quit, and he never will.” Bud stood up and laid a friendly hand on the old fellow's shoulder. “Pop, I'm running him to-day to win. That's the truth. I'm going to put all I've got on him. Is that good enough?”

“Shucks almighty! That's good enough fer me,—plenty good fer me,” Pop cackled, and trotted off to find someone who had little enough faith in Smoky to wager a two-to-one against him.

It seemed to Bud that the crowd was larger than that of a week ago, and there was no doubt whatever that the betting was more feverish, and that Jeff meant that day to retrieve his losses. Bud passed up a very good chance to win on other races, and centred all his betting on Smoky. He had been throughout the week boastful and full of confidence, and now he swaggered and lifted his voice in arrogant challenge to all and sundry. His three hundred dollars was on the race, and incidentally, he never left Smoky from the time he led him up from pasture until the time came when he and Jeff Hall rode side by side down to the quarter post.

They came up in a small whirlwind of speed and dust, and Smoky was under the wire to his ears when Skeeter's nose showed beyond it. Little Lost was jubilant. Jeff Hall and his backers were not.

Bud's three hundred dollars had in less than a minute increased to a little over nine hundred, though all his bets had been moderate. By the time he had collected, his pockets were full and his cocksureness had increased to such an unbearable crowing that Jeff Hall's eyes were venomous as a snake's. Jeff had been running to win, that day, and he had taken odds on Skeeter that had seemed to him perfectly safe.

“I'll run yuh horse for horse!” he bellowed and spat out an epithet that sent Bud at him white-lipped.

“Damn yuh, ride down to the quarter post and I'll show you some running!” Bud yelled back. “And after you've swallowed dust all the way up the track, you go with me to where the women can't see and I'll lick the living tar outa you!”

Jeff swore and wheeled Skeeter toward the starting post, beckoning Bud to follow. And Bud, hastily tucking in a flapping bulge of striped shirt, went after him. At that moment he was not Bud, but Buddy in one of his fighting moods, with his plans forgotten while he avenged an insult.

Men lined up at the wire to judge for themselves the finish, and Dave Truman rode alone to start them. No one doubted but that the start would be fair—Jeff and Bud would see to that!

For the first time in months the rein-ends stung Smoky's flanks when he was in his third jump. Just once Bud struck, and was ashamed of the blow as it fell. Smoky did not need that urge, but he flattened his ears and came down the track a full length ahead of Skeeter, and held the pace to the wire and beyond, where he stopped in a swirl of sand and went prancing back, ready for another race if they asked it of him.

“Guess Dave'll have to bring out Boise and take the swellin' outa that singin' kid's pocket,” a hardfaced man shouted as Jeff slid off Skeeter and went over to where his cronies stood bunched and conferring earnestly together.

“Not to-day, he needn't. I've had all the excitement I want; and I'd like to have time to count my money before I lose it,” Bud retorted. “Next Sunday, if it's a clear day and the sign is right, I might run against Boise if it's worth my while. Say, Jeff, seeing you're playing hard luck, I won't lick you for what you called me. And just to show my heart's right, I'll lend you Skeeter to ride home. Or if you want to buy him back, you can have him for sixty dollars or such a matter. He 's a nice little horse,—if you aren't in a hurry!”