A few days before the race Dorgan moved Chief to one of half a dozen sheds on the fair grounds, which a load of lumber and another of straw made comfortable. There he dwelt with him, giving him easy exercise and sizing up the other horses.

"Outside this Flambeau there ain't much to worry about," he concluded. "Only with a field of seven, like there will be in this race, there's always the chance of something going wrong. Chief ain't wise to starts, nor to running in company."

"You catch 'um good start," Paul Sam advised.

"You're a wise Injun," Dorgan told him. "I'll try to be somewhere's on the line—or in front of it. Still, I ain't quite burglar-proof."

At the fair Angus had a number of exhibits of ranch produce, cattle, and his team of young drivers. The night before the race he had been arranging his exhibits. This done he had supper, strolled around for an hour, and then returned to the National House, which was the leading hotel, in search of a man to whom he hoped to sell a few head of cattle. He got the number of his prospective customer's room, but apparently he had been misinformed, for the room held a poker game in full blast, the players being Gavin and Gerald French, two somewhat hard-faced strangers, and a young fellow about his own age whom he set down as an Englishman.

The French boys nodded a greeting.

"Hold on a minute," said Gerald as Angus would have withdrawn. "I want to see you."

So Angus remained, and standing behind Gerald watched the play.

One of the strangers dealt. On the draw Gerald held a full house; and yet he dropped out, as did Gavin. The Englishman who stayed lost most of his remaining stack. But the winning stranger did not seem elated. He scowled at the pot as he took it in.

Wondering what intuition had bade Gerald lay down a full—for the pot had been won by fours—Angus continued to watch the game. The deal came to Gerald, who riffled the cards.

"Time we had a drink," said he and rising brushed past Angus to touch a wall button. Reseating himself he began to deal.

One of the strangers opened. Gerald, as Angus could see, had nothing. Nevertheless he stayed, drawing three cards. Everybody stayed. The betting was brisk, and the pile of chips in the center grew. Gerald was the first to drop out. One of the strangers and the Englishman followed suit. Thus it was between the remaining stranger and Gavin. They proceeded to raise each other.

"If the limit was something worth while," said the stranger, "I could get proper action on this hand."

"It's high enough for these ranchers," the other stranger observed. "They don't like a hard game."

"What would you like?" Gavin queried.

"If you're game to lift it, you can come after a hundred."

Gavin, reaching into his pocket, brought forth a sheaf of currency from which he stripped two bills.

"And a hundred," he said.

The stranger's breath sucked hard through his teeth. His companion glanced swiftly and suspiciously at him and then at Gerald.

"This started out as a friendly game," he observed, a note of warning in his voice.

"Well, there's his hundred," the player said. "What you got? Come on—show 'em." He leaned forward.

"All the bullets," Gavin replied. He spread four aces face up, while his other hand reached for the pot.

The other stranger leaned forward, also, peering at the cards. Suddenly he started and his hand shot toward them. But Gavin's fell on it, pinning it to the table.

"What are you trying to do?" he demanded. Beneath the coldness of his tone there was something hard and menacing. The stranger wrenched to free his hand. It remained pinned in Gavin's grasp.

"I want to see those cards!" he cried with an oath.

"Where do you come in?" Gavin asked. "You didn't call me."

"But I did," the losing stranger broke in. "I want to see those cards, and I'm going to."

"You're looking at them now," Gavin pointed out.

Gerald coolly swept up the cards.

"I dealt them," he said. "They look all right to me. Four aces and a club seven. Take a look at them, Mackay, and see if this man has anything to kick at."

Thus appealed to, Angus took the cards. "I don't see anything wrong with them," he said.

"You don't, hey?" cried the loser. "I'm wise to you now. You did it, did you?"

"Did what?" Angus queried.

"Slipped him a cold deck!" the other roared. "You did it when he got up to press the button."

"I did nothing of the sort!" Angus denied in amazement.

"You're a liar!" the other shrilled. "D'ye think we're going to be cold-decked by a bunch of hicks?" He turned to Gavin. "Come through with that money, or——"

"Or what?" Gavin asked.

By way of bluff or otherwise the stranger resorted to the old, cogent argument. His right hand dropped swiftly. But as it did so Gavin thrust the table forward violently. The man went backward, chair and all. Gerald pounced on him like a leopard, caught his arm and twisted a short-barreled gun from the clutching fingers. Gavin, with equal quickness and less effort, caught and disarmed the other man, who without a word had reached for his gun to back his friend.

"Bad actors, you two!" Gerald sneered. "Gamblers—gunmen. Shocking! What'll we do with them, Gan?"

"Let 'em go," said the big man contemptuously, releasing his captive and flipping the cartridges from the gun. "Beat it, you blighters, and pick out easier marks next time."

"You big crook!" snarled the owner of the gun, "I'll get you——"

He never finished the sentence, for Gavin was on him. He caught him by the clothes above his breast, lifted him clear and slammed him back against the wall. There he held him, pinned with one hand, like a moth in a show-case.

"Get me, will you?" he growled hoarsely. "If I hit you, you cheap tinhorn, you'd never get me or anybody else. Try to get me, and I'll break your back over my knee. Like this!"

He plucked the man away from the wall as if he had been a doll, and threw him, back down, across his knee. For an instant he held him, and then set him on his feet. The man's face was the dead gray of asbestos paper.

"Git!" Gavin commanded. "Don't fool around here or make any more bluffs. Get out of town."

When the two strangers had gone, Gerald laughed gently.

"This breaks up our game, I guess," he said. "By the way—Angus Mackay—Mr. Chetwood."

The two young men shook hands. Chetwood was a long-limbed young fellow with the old-country color fresh in his cheeks, frank blue eyes with a baby stare which would have been a credit to any ingenue, but which held an occasional twinkle quite at variance with their ordinary expression. Angus was inclined to like him. Chetwood, on his part, eyed the lean, hard, sinewy bulk of Angus with admiration.

"I say, what was all the row about?" he asked Gerald. "They accused you of cheating, what?"

"Old game," said Gerald carelessly. "They went up against an unbeatable hand, lost more than they could afford, and tried to run a bluff. They were both crooks, anyway."

"But if you knew that, why the deuce did you play with them?"

"You can't be too particular if you want a game," Gerald laughed.

"You do things so dam' casual out here," Chetwood complained whimsically. "Now when they tried to draw revolvers—'guns' you call them out here—I should have given them in charge."

"Too much trouble and no police force handy," said Gerald. "But I wanted to ask you about that horse you've been training for the Indians, Mackay. Are you betting on him?"

"I haven't been training him, and I don't think I'll bet. The Indians will, though."

"Tell 'em we'll take all the money they have, at evens."

"Even money against the field?"

"Exactly. You'd better take a little yourself."

But Angus refused, principally because he had no money to lose. They went down to the lobby. This was crowded. Blake French, standing on a chair, was flourishing a sheaf of bills, offering even money as his brothers had done. He had been drinking, and his remarks seemed to be directed at some certain person or persons.

Looking over the heads of the crowd, Angus saw Dorgan and Paul Sam standing together. The old Indian, bare-headed, his gray braids hanging in front of either shoulder, wearing a blanket coat, skin-tight leggins and brand-new moccasins, made an incongruous figure. The two, seeing Angus, made their way toward him.

"That bird," said Dorgan nodding toward Blake, "is makin' a cinch offer. Take all you can get. The old boy, here, was just waitin' for you to hold the bets."

"S'pose you hold money, me bet him now," Paul Sam confirmed.

"Come on, come on!" Blake vociferated from his perch. "Put up a bet on your—cayuse. Here's real money. Come and get it!"

Dorgan turned to face him.

"You're makin' a whole lot of noise on that handful of chicken feed," he observed.

"Come and take it then," Blake retorted. "They tell me you used to ride for white men once."

"Well, that never gave you no first call on me!" Dorgan shot back.

Somebody laughed, and Blake's temper, always ugly, flared up.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, you down-and-outer, or I'll throw you out!" he rasped.

But Dorgan was not awed by the threat, nor by the size of the man who made it.

"Your own tongue ain't workin' none too smooth," he retorted. "Throw me out, hey? About all you'll throw will be a D. T. fit. A hunk of mice bait, that's about what you are, color and all."

With an oath Blake leaped from his chair, sending it crashing behind him. Perfectly game, little Dorgan crouched to meet the rush, in an attitude which showed a certain experience.

But Angus, cursing the luck which seemed to lead him athwart Blake, stepped between them.

"Hold on, now," he said. "You mustn't——"

"Get out of my way!" Blake roared.

"Now wait!" Angus insisted pacifically. "It wouldn't——"

But Blake struck at him. Angus dodged and clinched. But as he began to shove Blake back Gavin's great arms were thrust between them.

"Let go, Mackay," he said. "Quit it!" he commanded Blake.

"I'll show that runt he can't insult me!" the latter frothed. "Yes, and Mackay, too. Turn me loose, Gan——"

"You can't beat up their jockey before the race," his brother told him. "Too raw. Mackay? Mackay'd make a mess of you. Quit it, I tell you."

"I'll——" Blake began. But Gavin suddenly cursed him.

"Do you want me to handle you?" he demanded. In his voice came the hoarse, growling note it had held when he had spoken to the man pinned against the wall. His hand clamped his brother's wrist and his eyes blazed. Half drunk as he was, Blake apparently recognized these danger signals.

"Let go," he said. "I won't start anything."

His brother eyed him for a moment and turned to Paul Sam.

"How much do you want to bet?"

For answer the Indian pulled forth a huge roll of bills bound by a buckskin thong. They represented sales of steers, cayuses, skins of marten, beaver, bear and lynx, bounties on coyotes and mountain lion.

"Bet um all!" he announced succinctly.

"See what he's got," Gavin said to Angus, "and we'll cover it."

Angus sorted out the currency. It was in bills of various denominations and various stages of dilapidation. The amount totaled a little over twelve hundred dollars.

"We'll put up a check," said Gerald.

But when this was explained to Paul Sam, he interposed a decided negative. He himself was putting up real, tangible money, that could be handled and counted. Similar money must be put up against it. And when this was procured, with considerable difficulty at that time of night, he would not hear of it being put in the hotel safe, but insisted that Angus should hold it literally.

"Ha-a-lo put um in skookum box," he declared positively. "Me know you. S'pose you keep money, s'pose me win, me catch um sure. S'pose him put in skookum box, mebbe so me no catch um. You keep um money."

Reluctantly, Angus accepted its custody, but privately he made up his mind to deposit it in the safe as soon as the old Indian had gone. Soon after, Chetwood drew him aside.

"I've a fancy to have a little on the old buster's horse," he announced. "What do you say?"

"I don't say anything; it's your money."

"Quite so. But what sort of a run do you think I'll get for it?"

"The best the horse has in him, whatever that is."

"Then I've a notion to have a go at it."

"Do you know anything about the horses?"

"Not a thing," Chetwood replied cheerfully. "In the expressive language of the country, I'm playing a hunch. That old Indian takes my eye, rather."

"He's foxy enough. But the Indians have entered a horse every year, and never won yet."

"But a chap can't lose all the time," Chetwood observed. "And then the Frenches are offering even money against the field. No end sporting of 'em, but risky. That little ex-jockey knows his business?"

"I think so. Perhaps you'd like to have a talk with him and see the horse. He's going out now, and we'll go with him, if you care to."

"Thanks," Chetwood acknowledged. "That's very decent of you, Mackay. I'd like it very much."