The road to the track, which was nearly a mile beyond the town, was lonely and dark. Most of the way it ran through a wooded flat, and the tree shadows overlay it with denser gloom. But at last they emerged from the trees upon the natural prairie which held track and fair grounds. Along one side was a row of sheds, and here and there a lantern gleamed. Toward one of these lights Dorgan led them.

Dave Rennie, reading beside a lantern, nodded silently and, introduced to Chetwood, regarded him with disfavor, as a remittance man, one of the balloon-pants brigade.

"Everything all right, Davy?" Dorgan asked.

"Quiet now. There was a row down among the sheds a while ago. A pair of drunks mixed it, till we pulled 'em apart."

Dorgan picked up the lantern and illuminated a stall at the rear. Chief seemed uneasy, sidling away from the light, snorting and shaking his head. Chetwood moved with him, inspecting him closely.

"I should say that he has plenty of staying power," he observed. "At the distance I'd back him rather than any weedy, greyhound stock."

"And you'd be a good judge," Dorgan agreed, regarding Chetwood with more respect. Chief blew noisily, shaking his head and rubbing his nose against the feed-box. "How long's he been actin' that way, Dave?"

"Maybe an hour. I thought it might be a fly or a bit of foxtail in his feed."

"Not a bit of foxtail in his hay or beddin'. Might be a fly. Hold the lantern a minute."

He passed his hand over Chief's muzzle, and the horse thrust against his body, twisting and shaking his head. Dorgan examined his ears.

"Seems all right. What's worryin' you, old boy?"

The horse nosed him again, and exhaled a deep breath. Chetwood uttered an exclamation.

"How was his wind to-day when you exercised him?"

"Wind? Good. Why?"

"No cold—no stoppage of the nostrils?"

"No. What you gettin' at?"

"Listen to his breathing. There's something about it—not clear—a little, straining wheeze——"

Eyes narrowing, vibrant with quick suspicion, Dorgan took the horse's head on his shoulder and leaned his ear to the nostrils, listening intently. Suddenly he swore, a single, tremendous expletive, deep with venom, turning on Rennie.

"Did you go to see that fight you was speakin' of?"

"Sure. But I wasn't away five minutes."

"Was the horse uneasy before that?"

"I didn't notice it till I come back," Rennie admitted, and Dorgan swore again.

"They got to us somehow. Wait now. Hold still, Chief. So—o, lad! Quiet, boy!" Gently he laid his face against the muzzle. "By——, it's sponges!" he exclaimed suddenly.

"Sponges?" Angus repeated, puzzled.

"Sure—sponges! One of the bloody, dirtiest, meanest, surest-fire tricks in the whole box. A little, soft sponge shot up each nostril. A horse can't blow 'em out. He can breathe all right when he's quiet, but when he starts to run he can't get wind enough through 'em to feed his lungs, and they choke him off. It don't take a minute to work the trick on a quiet horse. It can be put over five minutes or a day before a race. A rider can do his best and get no speed. A crooked owner can fix his own horse and tell his boy to ride to win. That's what somebody's put over on us, and I'll gamble on it. Dave, fetch me my little black bag."

The bag contained a kit of veterinary instruments, and from them Dorgan selected a pair of long, slender forceps. But Chief objected and had to be thrown. Angus sat on his head while Dorgan worked. In the end he got the sponges, and Chief released, struggled up snorting, but apparently relieved and glad to be able to fill his lungs full once more.

"And a devil of a note a night before a race!" Dorgan commented. "Some horses it would put clean up in the air. But I'll bet Chief will fix this French bunch now, in spite of their dirty work."

"What makes you think they did it?"

"Ain't they givin' even money against the field? That means they think they got us fixed. That big stiff that tried to beat me up to-night would have fixed me if he could. They framed that fight to get Dave away from here. Well, there's no use makin' a roar, because we got nothin' on them. We're lucky to get wise." He nodded to Chetwood. "I dunno's we would if it hadn't been for you. I didn't think you knew a thing about the game, but I guess you do."

"Even if I am a pilgrim?" Chetwood laughed. "But you know we have horses and a few races in England."

"The smoothest crook I ever come across in the racin' game was an Englishman," Dorgan admitted generously.

Chetwood laughed at this ambiguous testimonial, and Angus liked him the better for it. Leaving Dorgan and Rennie to look after the horse, they took their townward way. The darkness seemed more intense. They stumbled on the deeply-rutted road.

"We should have borrowed a lantern," Chetwood observed. "The bally trees make it black as the devil. I think—Look out, Mackay! 'Ware foot-pads!"

As he spoke a dry stick cracked sharply. Angus whirled to his right. Three black figures were almost on top of them. He had no time to dodge or brace himself. An arm swung around his neck, and he got his chin down just in time. He grasped the arm, tore it down across his shoulder, and would no doubt have broken it with the next wrench; but just then something descended on his head, and he went down unconscious in the dust of the trail.

He came back to the world of affairs with a ripple of artistic English swearing in his ears, and sat up.

"That you, Chetwood?" he asked.

"Right-o, old chap!" Chetwood replied, in tones of relief. "You've been in dreamland so long I was afraid the blighters had jolly well bashed in your coco."

"What happened?" Angus demanded.

"Well, it's a bit thick to me," the Englishman admitted. "There were four of the beggars, and three of them went for you while the other gave me all I could do. They floored you, and then rapped me on the head with a sandbag, I should say." He felt his cranium tenderly. "Laid us both out side by side like a pair of blinking babes in the wood. I came around first, and that's some minutes ago. You're sure you're quite all right, old man?"

But struck by a sudden, horrible suspicion, Angus put his hand in his pocket and gasped.

"What's the matter?"

"Matter enough," he replied. "They have rustled all the money I was holding for Paul Sam and the French boys!"

"My aunt!" Chetwood ejaculated. "We must have been followed."

Angus nodded gloomily, cursing his own folly. Why had he been such a fool to carry nearly twenty-four hundred dollars in his pocket? He had fully intended to deposit it in the safe, but had neglected to do so. Now it was gone, and naturally he was responsible.

"I guess we were," he agreed. "You didn't recognize any of them, of course?"

"No. Too dark. I say, Mackay, this is beastly rotten luck."

"Worse than that for me. I'll have to make good."

"Yes, 'fraid you will. I say—you'll pardon me, I'm sure—but in the expressive idiom of the country, will it throw a crimp into you to do it?"

"Will it?" Angus replied grimly. "I have no more than three hundred dollars in the bank, and it keeps me scratching gravel with both feet to make ends meet on the ranch and pay what I have to pay. It puts me in a devil of a hole, if you want to know."

"Hard lines!" Chetwood sympathized. "In the breezy phraseology of the country, it's sure hell. But buck up, old chap! Let me be your banker."

"You mean you'll lend me the money?" Angus exclaimed.

"Like a shot."

"Are you that strong?"

"Strong?" Chetwood queried.

"I mean that well fixed financially."

"Another delightful idiom!" Chetwood laughed. "Must remember it. Well, I have some money to invest, and this looks like my chance."

"It looks to me like a mighty poor investment," Angus told him. "I couldn't pay you for the Lord knows how long."

"Shouldn't expect you to."

"No, I can't do it," Angus decided, "though it's mighty white of you, and I am just as much obliged. I'll get it from somebody who is in the loaning business."

"Back your paper, if you like."

"Nor that either. I will kill my own snakes."

"Obstinate beggar!" Chetwood commented. "Highland blood, and all that sort of thing." He was silent for a moment. "By George, I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I know how we'll turn the corner. Simplest thing in the world. I'll bet the amount you've lost, we win it, and there we are. Rippin' idea, what!"

"Suppose we don't win?"

"Don't be a bally pessimist. It's more than a sportin' chance; it's a sound declaration. I'll have a go at it."

Seeing that he was thoroughly in earnest, Angus endeavored to dissuade him, and at last apparently succeeded.

"But we'll find some way out," he said. "Never say die. No surrender. Yard-arm to yard-arm, and keep the ruddy flag flying, Mackay."

But Angus slept little that night. The problem of raising the money worried him. He thought he could get it from Mr. Braden, but he was not sure. And what worried him just as much was that eventually it must come out of the ranch. His carelessness had saddled it with a fresh load of debt. Then there was Jean. Whatever happened, her education must not be interrupted, her way must be paid. He would see to that if he had to sell every head of stock on the range. The first pale dawn was rousing the birds to sleepy twitterings when he finally forgot his problems in troubled slumber.