Mr. Braden regarded Angus Mackay severely across his desk. "Tut, tut, tut!" he said. "A very bad business, indeed. Bad company. Evil communications, horse racing, gambling. Very bad!"

"But all I did was to hold the stakes," Angus protested.

"That was just what you didn't do," Mr. Braden pointed out. "It is a large sum."

"I know that, but I have to have it. I am good for the money. Chetwood offered to lend it to me or endorse my note, but——"

"Chetwood, hey?" said Mr. Braden with sudden interest. "Why should he do that?"

"No reason at all. That's why I wouldn't let him."

"Do you know what he is going to do in this country?"

"He spoke of ranching."

"Ha!" said Mr. Braden. "Has he bought any land yet?"

"I don't think so."

"He should be careful," said Mr. Braden. "He should go to some reliable person. Too many irresponsible dealers. He might get—er—stung. I have some very attractive propositions. Did he mention any amount that he was prepared to invest?"

"No. He's going to look around before he buys."

"Glad to show him around," said Mr. Braden heartily. "Bring him to me, Angus, and he won't regret it. Neither—er—neither will you."

"How about lending me this money?" Angus asked.

"Oh—ah—yes, the money. H'm. Well, under the circumstances I will advance it on your note. Not business, but to help you out——Well, don't forget about Chetwood. Bring him in. He might get into wrong hands, you know. Bring him in, my boy, and you won't regret it."

With the settlement of the money question Angus was greatly relieved. He was saddled with an additional debt, but at least he was in a position to pay the winner, which as he looked at it was the main thing.

With Jean he went out to the track early in the afternoon. Here and there in the crowd he noted the tall figures of the French brothers. Apparently, they were still taking all the money they could get. On their way to the stand to secure seats, they came upon Chetwood, who was eying the motley crowd whose costumes ranged from blankets to Bond Street coats, with pure delight. But being introduced to Jean, the young Englishman lost all interest in the crowd, and accompanied them. Kathleen French waved greeting to them, and they found seats beside her. It appeared that she had met Chetwood.

"Well, Angus, do you want any Flambeau money?" she laughed.

"I wouldn't bet much, if I were you," he advised her seriously.

"I will bet every dollar I can. That's what the boys are doing, and they're good judges of a horse."

"I think Dorgan is a better one."

"What does he know about Flambeau?" she asked.

"He seems to be satisfied with knowing Chief."

A little line came between Kathleen's eyes, but she shook her head. "Flambeau carries all the money we can get up."

Angus having given her his advice said no more, and went to have a final look at Chief.

"I've had Dave bet my roll for me," Dorgan told him. "I ain't a regular rider no more, and I need the money. Barring accidents, Chief wins handy."

"The Frenches are just as sure of Flambeau."

"Yeh," Dorgan replied calmly. "I just seen the boy burglar that's ridin' for 'em. There's tracks he couldn't work on, but I ain't makin' no kick. If he puts anything over on me, it'll be new stuff. But I guess they figure they got the race won in the stable."

When Flambeau came on the track, Angus admitted to himself that he justified Kathleen's confidence. Knowing quite well what he had to do, the horse was eager. Up on his withers crouched a hard-faced boy in maroon and silver, who eyed the other horses and riders with cool contempt.

But Chief was being led through the gate, and up on his back flashed Dorgan's old black-and-yellow silk. The big horse stepped forward, looking at track and crowd with surprised and inquiring but quite calm eyes. Dorgan patted his neck and spoke to him, and he came past the stand in the long, singing, stretching canter which was deceptive by its very ease. Angus looked at Kathleen.

"He's a grand horse!" she admitted, and once more the little line lay between her eyes.

It became evident at the start that it was a fight between Dorgan and French's boy. Neither would concede the slightest advantage. Both were warned. As they wheeled back, after half a dozen abortive starts, French's boy was spitting insults from the corner of his mouth, and old Dorgan was grinning at him. Side by side, watching each other like boxers, they wheeled and came down on the line. Crouched, arms extended, the harried starter caught the bunch fair at last.

"G'wan!" he yelled as his flag swept. "G'wan outa here!" And the dust of the flurrying hoofs hid him.

At the turn Flambeau was running third, and slightly behind and a little wide and thus out of a possible danger zone, was the black and yellow. But in the stretch on the first round Flambeau had drawn level with the leading horse. As they swept past the stand, Chief, still behind and well out, was running like a machine. Dorgan turned his face, twisted in a grin, up to the stand.

"By George, the old boy thinks he has the race on toast!" Chetwood exclaimed.

"He can't catch Flambeau now!" Kathleen asserted.

But to Angus came the recollection of a piece of the old jockey's wisdom.

"Not every jock that knows pace is a good jock," he had said; "but no jock is a good jock that don't. If you know pace and know you're makin' the time, you don't need to worry. Your leaders will come back to you. I never was no star rider, but pace is one thing I do know."

At the turn it was plainly a fight between the two horses. Angus saw French's boy turn his head, and then sit down to ride. Dorgan was motionless, lying flat, but the gap began to close. Angus glanced at Kathleen. She was leaning forward, tense, eager, her lips drawn straight, the color pinched from them. When he looked at the horses again Chief's head was lapping Flambeau. French's boy went to his bat. It rose and fell. At the same moment Dorgan seemed to sink into and become part of his horse's neck.

For an instant they seemed to be running together. Then steadily, surely, inch by inch the black and yellow crept past the maroon and silver, and the chestnut head appeared in front of the bay. Into the stretch they came, French's boy riding it out and fighting it out to the last inch with Flambeau game to the core under terrific punishment. But as they thundered past the stand Dorgan, his ear hugging Chief's neck, was looking back beneath his arm, and there was clear daylight between the horses.

Once more Angus glanced at Kathleen. She smiled as she met his eye.

"Well, you were right," she said.

"I hope you didn't lose much."

"We—I lost—plenty, thanks. Anyway, I'm proud of Flambeau. He was outrun, but he ran game to the last foot."

With Chetwood, Angus went to see Dorgan. On the way they came upon Gavin and Gerald French. The latter was tearing up a bunch of tickets. At sight of them he laughed, tossing the fragments aloft.

"Good paper—once," he observed. "Give you a check to-night, Chetwood."

"Give you mine, too," said Gavin, lighting his pipe. "Good race, wasn't it?"

"Rippin'," Chetwood agreed. "No hurry about settlements, you know."

"Oh, we may as well clean up," Gerald returned carelessly. "See you later."

"So you did bet," Angus observed to his companion as they moved on.

"I told you it was a sound scheme to get back what you lost. I was jolly right, too. The money is quite at your service if you need it."

"I've raised the money, thanks all the same."

"In the quaint idiom of the country, far be it from me to horn in, but if I'm not impertinent, how did you do it?"

"Borrowed it on my note."

"Oh, my sacred aunt!" Chetwood groaned. "Now listen to reason, old chap. Here's this money, just the same as if I'd found what you lost. Take it and——"

"Cut it out!" Angus interrupted. "That doesn't go."

"What an obstinate beggar you are!" Chetwood observed in disappointment. "Well, we'll say no more about it, then. Do you know, I fancy the Frenches have come rather a cropper to-day. Of course, I don't know anything of their finances, but they were doing some dashed heavy betting. I fancied Miss French was hard hit."

"So did I," Angus agreed.

"Stood up to it like a major," Chetwood nodded. "Like to see 'em game."

They found Dorgan and Rennie rubbing and sponging the big horse, fussing over him like two hens with one chick.

"Well, I win me a whole barrel of kale," Dorgan chuckled. "I'll bet them Frenches will find her a hard winter unless they're well fixed." He eyed the big chestnut contemplatively for a moment. "And yet, mind you, he ain't a racin' horse," he said, "and don't you never fool yourself that he is. He can run now, and he'll always run as long as an eight-day clock, because he's got the works. But he's a weight carrier, that's what he is. He's a white man's horse, and I hate like poison to see him go back to them Lo's. Why don't you buy him? He'd carry your weight, and you'd be ridin' a real horse."

"I haven't the money," Angus replied regretfully, for in his heart he had coveted Chief from the time he had first mounted him.

Later, when he had handed over his winnings to Paul Sam, Angus drove homeward with Jean. The day had been fine, but in the west a blue-black sky, tinged with copper, bore promise of storm. He sent the team along at a lively clip to reach home before it should break.

He reflected that it had been a most expensive race for him. He did not know when he would be able to repay the money he had borrowed. But his crops were looking well, and his grain was almost ready to cut. His hay was already in. This year he could pay interest on Braden's mortgage. Jean would require more money. She was going to take a special, qualifying course, after which she would be able to teach. But he rather hoped she would not. Undoubtedly, she livened up the ranch.

Recently Jean had developed. She had grown not only physically but mentally. She was, Angus realized, a young woman. He had heard Chetwood ask permission to call at the ranch.

"How do you like this Chetwood?" he asked.

"Where did you meet him?" Miss Jean countered.

"With a couple of the French boys."

"Oh," said Miss Jean, who was under no delusions as to the boys aforesaid, "then he's apt to need his remittances."

"He seems a decent chap," her brother observed.

"He may be," Miss Jean returned nonchalantly, "but I'm not strong for these remittance men."

But the black cloud was mounting higher and higher. A gust of cold wind struck their faces. The dust of the trail rose in clouds, and behind it they heard the roar of the wind. Beyond that again, as they topped a rise and obtained a view, a gray veil, dense, opaque, seemed to have been let down.

"I'm afraid we can't make the ranch without a wetting," Angus said.

"And my best duds, too!" Jean groaned.

A quarter of a mile ahead there was the wreck of an abandoned shack which might suffice to keep Jean dry, and Angus sent his team into their collars; but they had not covered half the distance when with a hissing rush the gray barrier was upon them. And it was not rain, but hail!

The stones varied in size from that of buckshot to robin's eggs. Under the bombardment the dust puffed from the trail. The horses leaped and swerved at the pelting punishment, refusing to face it.

"Throw the lap-robe over your head," Angus told Jean, and thereafter was occupied exclusively with his team.

The colts swung around, cramping the wheel, almost upsetting the rig. Angus avoided a capsize by a liberal use of the whip, but with the punishment and the sting and batter of the icy pellets the animals were frantic. They began to run.

Not being able to help it, Angus let them go, having confidence in his harness and rig. Just there the road was good, without steep grades or sharp turns. He let them run for half a mile under a steady pull, and then after reminding them of their duty by the whip, he began to saw them down. Inside a few hundred yards he had them under control, and pulled them, quivering and all a-jump, under the shelter of two giant, bushy firs.

There Jean, peeping from beneath the robe, saw her brother by the colts' heads.

"Thanks for the ride!" she observed with mild sarcasm. Angus stiffened arm and body against a sudden lunge.

"Stand still, you!" he commanded, "or I'll club you till you'll be glad to!" And to Jean: "They wouldn't face it, and I don't blame them. I thought we were over once."

"Some hail!" Jean commented. "I never saw anything like it."

But already the storm was passing. Came a tail-end spatter of rain, and the sky began to clear. But as he wheeled his team out from shelter Angus' face was very grave, and a sudden thought struck his sister.

"Why," she exclaimed, her brown eyes opening wide, "do you suppose that hail struck the ranch?"

"I don't know," he replied, "but if it did, there won't be any threshing this year. It was bad."

As they drove on there was evidence of that. The grass was beaten flat, bushes were stripped of leaves. They passed the body of a young grouse which, caught in the open and confused, had been pelted to death. It was without doubt very bad hail.

When they came in sight of the ranch, Jean, unable to restrain her impatience, rose to her feet and, holding her brother's shoulder, took a long look. He felt her hand tighten, gripping him hard. Then she dropped back into the seat beside him.

"It—it hit us!" she said.

In a few moments Angus could see for himself. The fields of grain which, as they had driven away that morning, had rippled in the fresh wind, nodding full, heavy heads to the blue sky, were beaten flat. The heads themselves were threshed by the icy flail of the storm. He knew as he looked at the flattened ruin that there would be no threshing. He was "hailed out"!

Though the event assumed the proportions of a disaster, Angus said not a word. His black brows drew down and his mouth set hard. That was all. He felt Jean's arm go beneath his and press it.

"I'm sorry, old boy!" she said. "We needed the money, didn't we!"

"Yes," he replied.

"Oh, well, it can't be helped," she said. "I'll stay home this winter, of course. I can do that much to help, anyway."

"You will do nothing of the sort," her brother declared.

"But——"

"I will find the money. You will finish what you have begun, and that is all there is to it."

"I won't——"

"You will!" Angus said in a voice his sister had never heard before. "I say you will. You have a right to your education, and you shall have it. If I cannot give it to you, I am no man at all!"