After the boys had been on the ranch some two or three weeks a new topic of interest came up. It seemed that every Fourth of July a great celebration was held in Helena, in which cowboys and ranchmen from many miles around took part. All sorts of competitions were held, such as roping, throwing, target shooting, and so on. As the day drew near, it became the chief topic of conversation about the ranch, and everybody, with the exception of two or three who would have to stay to take care of the stock, intended to go and take part in the festivities.

Quite a feature of the present celebration was to be a one-mile running race. As a rule ranchmen and cowboys are not noted for their running abilities, generally being more at home upon the back of a horse than upon their own feet. But among the neighboring ranches there were several fair runners, and among the townspeople there were others. The last year or two a hot rivalry had existed between the ranchmen and "townies" over the outcome of the running race, for in this event everybody, no matter what his daily occupation, could be interested.

The last year one of the men from the Bar X Ranch had taken the prize money, and the ranchers had all been jubilant. They imagined they had a fair chance to win this year's event with the same runner, and Mr. Melton's men thought so too. But one day late in June Chip returned from a trip to town with clouded brow.

"What do yuh think them low-down Piutes that calls themselves citizens of Helena has been an' done now?"

"What's bitin' yuh, Chip?" asked Sandy. "Did somebody get your wad, or what?"

"No, nothin' like that," answered Chip. "I'll tell it to you jest the way one o' the boys handed it to me. He says t' me, 'Waal, Chip, I reckon you boys on the ranches hereabouts won't pick off the prize money this year in the footrace, will yuh?'

"'Oh, I don't know,' I answers him. 'Yuh never kin tell what's going to happen, but we-all have a sneakin' idea that our man is jest goin' to run away from any shorthorn you guys kin put up.'

"'Oh, is that so?' he jeers, real triumphant-like, 'well, I got a little piece o' change that I'm willin' to put up on our man. How do yuh feel?'

"Waal, I wasn't goin' to let the guy bluff me, so I covers his money to the tune o' fifty bucks. 'I s'pose Jenkins, the feller that nearly pulled down the prize last year, is goin' to run fer you, ain't he' I asks, never suspicionin' that he'd say anythin' but 'yes.'

"'Not any,' he answers, grinnin' satisfied like; 'we've got another man this year, an' a streak o' greased lightnin' is plumb slow an' ploddin' alongside him.'

"'An' who is this yere maverick?' I asks him, feelin' like somebody'd hit me when I wasn't lookin'.

"'Johnson is his brand,' says the sport; 'stick around a while an' I'll point him out t' yuh. There he is now,' he says sudden-like, pointin' to a guy amblin' along the sidewalk with half a dozen kids taggin' at his heels, 'there's the guy what's goin' to make your runners look like candidates from a young ladies' finishing school. Take a good look at him, Chip, so yuh'll know him the next time yuh see him.'

"Waal, boys, I took a good look, as this sport suggests, and I'm a pop-eyed tenderfoot if I didn't recognize the guy right off. I couldn't jest place him at first, but in a few seconds I remembered where I'd seen him last."

"An' where was that?" questioned Sandy, while everybody listened eagerly for his answer.

"It was at a function thet come near bein' a lynchin' party," answered Chip. "I was up in a little town over the Canada border at the time, an' they had jest had a race like this yere one we-all has on the Fourth o' July, only they ain't no sech institution there, them folks bein' nothin' but benighted Britishers and Frenchmen. Howsum-ever, they'd had a race, and this maverick what's pointed out to me in Helena had won the race, together with most o' the loose change in the town. Suddenly a guy in the crowd yells out: 'That feller's a 'ringer.' I seen him run in an Eastern professional race onct.'"

"Waal, thet was like puttin' a match to powder, and them people was goin' to string the guy up, only the sheriff came along jest then and stopped the proceedin's. So that's when I see this party last."

"Yes, but he might not have been a 'ringer'," suggested Bert, who had come up and joined the group while Chip was speaking. "He might have been square, but the man that accused him probably had lost money, and may have accused him just to get even. You don't have to prove much to an angry mob when they want to believe what you're telling them, anyway."

"Yes, I thought o' that," replied Chip, "but a few weeks arterward I come across an old newspaper with this party's picture engraved on the sportin' page, an' underneath it said, 'Albert Summers, the well-known professional one-mile runner,' or words meanin' the same thing. I'd clean forgot about it, though, until I sees this yere hoss thief paradin' the streets o' Helena followed by the admirin' glances o' the populace."

The cowboys exchanged indignant glances, and Sandy said, "Mebbe the folks in Helena don't know this maverick's a professional."

"I suppose most o' them don't," replied Chip, "but the officials thet have charge o' the race are wise, all right. It looks as though I was goin' to be out fifty hard-earned dollars, but it will keep the rest o' yuh boys from losin' any o' your money, anyhow."

"Seems t' me it's up to us t' give this here shell game away," remarked Buck; "it riles me plumb fierce t' think of anybody puttin' over a game like that an' gettin' away with it."

"The best thing to do, I should think," remarked Bert, "would be to let this Summers, or Johnson, or whatever his name is, run, and get somebody to beat him. That would be doing things artistically, as you might say."

"What do yuh mean?" queried Sandy, speaking for his surprised companions, "yuh think we ought t' get a 'ringer' on our own account to beat this professional sharp?"

"Not at all," said Bert with a grin. "I don't want to seem to boast, but I've done a little running myself at times, and I think if I entered against this 'profesh' I might be able to give him a run for his money."

The cowboys looked somewhat incredulous, and Chip said, "I seen this feller run, m' lad, and he sure is fast, I got to admit that much. Have yuh ever done much runnin'?"

"Quite some," replied Bert with a curious little smile. "The next time you talk to Trent or Henderson ask them about it, if you don't believe me."

He strolled off, and after he had gone the men held a consultation. Chip was openly skeptical regarding Bert's offer to run. "He's a fine lad an' all that," he opined, "but it takes more than an amateur to beat this sharp. The boy would be out of his class, I reckon, if he came up against this yere sprinter."

The others seemed inclined to agree with Chip's view of the matter, but Sandy demurred. "I've been watchin' that lad," he said, "an' I've noticed he don't usually go around shootin' off his mouth about nothin'. Seems t' me before we pass up his proposition it might be a good idea to look up his friends an' see what they say about it."

"Waal, thet's only fair," remarked one of the cowboys known to his mates only as "Bud." "I vote we make Sandy an' Chip a committee o' two to see Trent an' Henderson an' question them on this yere p'int. Yuh don't want to fergit thet if we could find somebody thet could beat this Helena candidate we'd have it on them effete citizens so bad they'd wear mournin' fer a year."

This consideration had great weight with the others, and they all assented to Bud's proposition. It was agreed that at the first opportunity Sandy and Chip should question Tom and Dick on the subject of Bert's running abilities, and so the matter was dropped for the present.

The "committee," however, kept it in mind, and when, as they were returning to the bunkhouse that same evening, Chip and Sandy espied Dick and Tom at no great distance, riding along in leisurely fashion, they immediately hailed them.

On hearing their names called the two friends looked around, and, seeing the ranchmen beckoning to them, cantered over in their direction, and quickly reached the spot on which they were standing.

"What's up?" questioned Dick, "anything wrong?"

"No, not 'specially," answered Sandy, slightly at a loss as to the best way to bring up the subject. "Yuh see, it's this way. Some o' the boys has heard thet your pal, Wilson, is somethin' of a runner, and we was jest cur'ous to know ef it was so. Can you wise us up on this yere mooted p'int?"

Dick looked over at Tom and grinned. "You tell 'em, Tom," he said; "tell them whether Bert can run or not."

"Well," said Tom, "Bert isn't such an awful good runner, no. He's never done a thing in that line except win the Marathon run at the last Olympic games, break every college record from one to twenty-five miles, and set up a new world's record for the five mile distance. Outside of that he can't run worth a cent, can he, Dick?"

For a moment Dick was too amused watching the faces of the two ranchmen to answer. "Wh-what are yuh tryin' t' hand us, anyhow," demanded Chip. "Do yuh really mean he's the same Wilson thet won the big Marathon race?"

"Straight goods," answered Dick; "if you don't believe it, ask Melton."

"Whoop-ee!" yelled Sandy, throwing his sombrero high in the air and catching it deftly as it descended. "No wonder he seemed so confident when he offered to run fer us. At thet time I kind a' thought he was jest stringin' us along."

"You'll find that when Bert says a thing he generally means it," remarked Dick, "but what is it all about, anyway? What was it that he offered to run in?"

Sandy then proceeded to explain all that had occurred that morning, and when he had finished both Tom and Dick gave a long whistle.

"So that's how the land lies, is it?" exclaimed Dick; "the old sinner's never satisfied unless he's winning something or other, is he?"

"You said something that time," acquiesced Tom, a note of pride in his voice; "if excitement won't come to him, he goes looking for it. That's his style, every time."

The two cowboys did not stop to hear any more, but hurried off excitedly to take the news to their companions. They burst into the bunkhouse, where the men had already sat down to supper.

"Boys, we're all a bunch o' locoed Piutes," yelled Sandy. "Do you know who this boy Wilson is, eh? He's the feller that won the Marathon fer Uncle Sam at the Olympic games, an' we never knew it. Somebody kindly make the remarks fer me thet 're approp'rite on sech an occasion."

For a few seconds, astonished exclamations of a very forceful character filled the air, but soon the cowboys quieted down somewhat, and began to discuss the surprising news in every detail. Everybody was jubilant, and already they could picture the chagrin of the townspeople when their favorite was beaten.

"But we don't want to be too certain of winnin', at that," cautioned Bud; "arter all, that Helena runner is a professional, an' Wilson is only an amateur, no matter how good he may be. A feller thet makes a livin' out of a thing is likely to do it better than the sport thet does it fer fun, leastwise, thet's the way I figger it out."

"Thet's all right," spoke up Reddy, "but ef yuh can remember that far back, you'll rec-lect that his pals told us he held a world's record fer five miles. Waal, now, they must 'a' been lots o' professionals runnin' thet distance, and in spite of everythin' they never did no better'n thet. What've yuh got to say t' that, eh?"

Thus the discussion raged, and the cowboys stayed up much later than usual that night arguing every phase of the forthcoming race pro and con. As is usually the case in such discussions, they reached no decision, beyond unanimously agreeing that the best man would win, a proposition that few people would care to argue.

In the meantime the three comrades had met at Mr. Melton's hospitable board, and Dick and Tom recounted with great mirth the surprise of the cowboys on hearing of Bert's athletic prowess.

"It was better than a circus," laughed Dick. "I never saw two more surprised faces in my life."

"I either," said Tom. "I guess they must have thought Bert was champion of some hick village before they consulted us."

"I could see that was their idea when I offered to run," grinned Bert; "that's why I referred them to you."

"The boys place a lot of importance on the foot race," said Mr. Melton; "in the other events they're chiefly competing against each other, but in that they meet the townspeople on common ground, and it means a lot to them to win. And if the winner comes from their own particular ranch, that makes the victory all the more sweet."

"Well," remarked Bert, "if I do run in that race, as it seems very likely I shall, I'll certainly do my best to win for the ranch. I don't suppose there'll be much competition outside of this 'ringer,' anyway."

"No, I don't think there'll be much competition for you," smiled Mr. Melton, "but just the same there'll be some pretty fair runners in that race, and they may make you hustle a little at that."

"I hope they do," said Bert, "but the only thing I'm going in the race for is to show up that crooked runner. It's such fellows as he that give the sport a bad name. I'll do everything in my power to discourage it whenever I get the chance."

"That's the talk," encouraged Tom, "go to it, old boy, and show him up. Besides, it will put you in more solid than ever with the cowboys here. They've got a pretty good idea of you already, I imagine, and this will cinch matters."

"It will give me an awful black eye if I should happen to get licked," laughed Bert; "you never seem to think of that side of it."

"No, we'll have to admit that we don't take that into consideration much," said Dick; "you seem to have such an inveterate habit of winning that we rather take it as a matter of course."

"I don't take it as a matter of course, though, not by a long sight," said Bert; "many a fellow's got tripped up by being over-confident, and not waking up until it was too late. I go into anything like that with the idea that if I don't do my very best I may lose. And then, if a person does lose a race, that excuse of 'over-confidence' doesn't go a long way, I've noticed."

"No, it's better to be on the safe side, I guess," admitted Dick. "But are you going to train at all for this race?"

"Nothing to speak of," answered Bert. "The life we're living these days keeps a fellow about as fit as he can be, anyway. I feel as though I could start running at a minute's notice and give a good account of myself."

They talked over matters in this fashion until they had discussed the forthcoming event at every angle, and then separated for the night.

From that time on little else was thought or talked of about the ranch. Even the roping and riding contests were relegated to the background. News that the Bar Z boys had a promising candidate had been circulated among the neighboring ranches, and there was almost as much excitement rife on them as on Mr. Melton's. The cowboys were always questioning Dick and Tom in regard to Bert's "past performances," and never tired of hearing his exploits as told by his enthusiastic friends.

Never was a day so looked forward to as the Fourth of July that year, and never did a day seem so long in coming. The last days of June were checked off one by one on a highly colored calendar suspended against the wall of the bunkhouse, and at last the impatient ranchers tore the June sheet off, or, as Chip put it, "took a month off."

Saddles were gone over, oiled and polished, and when at last the longed-for day arrived every preparation had been made to celebrate it fittingly. Everybody on the ranch was up before the sun, and after a hasty breakfast they sallied forth to town.

The three comrades rode with them, and the cowboys surrounded them as a sort of bodyguard. Mr. Melton was not able to accompany them, as he had some pressing business affairs to attend to, but he had promised to reach town before the running race, which was not to take place until the afternoon, was "pulled off."

It was a beautiful day and the ranchmen were in high spirits. They laughed and shouted and indulged in rough horse-play like a crowd of school-boys out for a lark, and the boys did their full share to add to the general gaiety. The long miles slipped unnoticed behind them, and the sun was not far above the eastern horizon when the party cantered into Helena.

The town was gaily bedecked in honor of the occasion. The houses were draped with flags and bunting, and in many cases long colored streamers fluttered from the windows and roofs.

The cowboys set spurs to their ponies, and swept down the street like a veritable cyclone. They met other parties who had just arrived, and exchanged greetings with the many friends among them. There was an air of merry-making and good-fellowship in the air that was infectious, and everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves.

"They certainly know how to have a good time," remarked Dick. "I guess it's because they have so few holidays that they enjoy them all the more when they do come."

Along the streets booths were lined, selling anything from a ten-cent pocket knife to a blue-barreled Colts revolver. The numerous saloons were going full blast, and were doing a profitable business. Nobody is more of a spendthrift than your true cowboy when he is out on pleasure bent, and the fakirs and saloon-keepers were taking full advantage of that fact.

The party from Melton's ranch, with the exception of the three boys, lost no time in slaking the thirst occasioned by their ride over the prairie, and then they all repaired to the scene of the first event on the entertainment programme, which proved to be a roping and tying contest. Chip entered this and narrowly missed winning the prize.

"Tough luck, old timer," consoled Sandy, "but better luck next time. You made a good stab at it, anyhow."

Other events were run off in quick succession, with the excitement running high and keeping everybody at fever heat. The boys from the home ranch won their share of the honors and a little over, and were proportionately jubilant. "An' ef Wilson wins that race this arternoon," said Sandy, "the boys from the ranch will feel so dawgoned good thet they won't be able t' kick about nothin' fer a year t' come."

"Thet's a good one, thet is," jeered one of the townspeople who had overheard this remark. "Why, that guy Wilson ain't got even a look-in. Our champ will make him look like an also ran."

"Is that so?" replied Sandy sarcastically. "Well, yuh just stick around this arternoon, an' yuh'll realize what a plumb egreg'us idjut a feller can become by livin' in town a spell. Why, yuh poor boob, the feller you're backin' to rake in the chips ain't got even a ghost of a show."

Others of the citizens began to join in the argument, and words were beginning to run high when Hotchkiss, the sheriff, galloped up on his horse. "Here, here, boys," he exclaimed, "no hard feelin' on the glorious Fourth. We're all here to have a good time, an' anybody that don't think so can talk to me."

"All right, Bill," said Sandy soothingly; "we warn't allowin' to have a scrap, but the people o' this yere town is got too big a idea o' themselves, thet's all."

"Come away, Sandy," advised Dick, laughing. "Maybe we'll take a little of the starch out of them this afternoon."

Sandy at last allowed himself to be persuaded, and the cowboys rode off. Soon afterward the three boys left them, for they had arranged with Mr. Melton to lunch with him at the principal hotel.

When they entered its doors he was waiting for them in the lobby, his genial face beaming.

"Well, my lads," he exclaimed, "how do you like the way we spend our holidays out here, eh?"

"Great!" exclaimed Bert, speaking for the others; "the boys certainly know how to make things hum when they get started. There's something doing every minute."

"Yes, they're a great lot," said Mr. Melton. "They're hot tempered and inclined to jump too quickly into a quarrel, but their hearts are always in the right place, and they're loyal to the core. But how do you feel, Bert?" suddenly changing the subject. "Have you got your winged shoes on to-day?"

"Never felt more like running in my life," smiled Bert. "Anybody that beats me to-day will have to travel a little, I think."

"Good!" exclaimed the rancher, "that's the kind of talk I like to hear. Everybody I've talked to in the hotel here seems to think that this Johnson is going to have things all his own way, and I want you to give them the surprise of their lives."

The fact that Bert was a Marathon winner was not generally known, and everybody in town thought that their candidate would have an unknown runner pitted against him, whom he could easily vanquish. It was, therefore, with feelings of the utmost confidence that they streamed toward the place where the race was to be held. They bantered the cowboys they met unmercifully, but the latter kept their own counsel, and only smiled in a knowing fashion. Money was bet freely on both sides, and those who lost stood to lose heavily.

After the boys had finished luncheon, they and Mr. Melton repaired to the meeting place. The race was to be run around a one-mile oval track, and five men were entered as contestants. Besides Bert and Johnson, the winner of the previous race, Jed Barnes, was to race, and two other men from neighboring ranches. As soon as the boys and Mr. Melton reached the track they parted, the former seeking out the dressing room, and the latter securing a seat in the grand stand.

Bert got into his racing togs immediately, and his comrades left him and walked out to secure seats for themselves. This was soon done, and they settled themselves, waiting as best they could for the start.

The stand and field filled rapidly until at last, when the gates were closed, every available space was occupied by a tightly packed, expectant throng. Suddenly a whistle blew and a few seconds afterward the runners walked out and proceeded to draw lots for the choice of position. Bert drew third from the inside rail, Jed Barnes second, and Johnson secured the best place next to the rail.

"That makes a rather bad handicap for Bert," said Tom anxiously. "I wish he could have gotten a better position."

"Oh, well, it might be worse," said Dick, but it must be confessed he was a little worried also. Johnson was a well-built athlete, and seemed to be in the best of condition. Dick recalled that Bert had not gone through any special training, and was assailed with misgivings. However, he had not long to wait. The runners took their places, and the starter raised his pistol in the air.

"Get set!" he called, and amid a breathless silence the racers crouched over, their fingers barely touching the ground.

Crack! went the pistol, and amid a roar from the spectators the five athletes sprang ahead as though released from a catapult. Elbows pressed against their sides, heads up, they made a thrilling picture, and the crowd cheered wildly. At first they kept well together, but they were setting a fast pace, and soon one of the men began to lag behind. But little attention was paid him, for interest was concentrated on Bert, Johnson and Barnes. Before they were half way around the oval the fourth man had dropped out, so the race had narrowed down to these three.

Suddenly Bert increased his stride a little, and spurted ahead. A wild shout went up from the spectators, and those who had not already done so leaped to their feet. "Wilson! Wilson!" chanted the cowboy contingent, while the townspeople no less vociferously reiterated the name of their favorite.

But the "ringer" was not to be shaken off, and he in turn put on a burst of speed that carried him into the lead. As the runners rounded the three-quarter mile mark he was still leading, and Barnes was lagging far to the rear, evidently done for as far as the race was concerned. Chip had said that Johnson could "move some," and the professional did not belie his reputation. Apparently, Bert was unable to close up the gap of nearly a yard that now separated him from his rival, and the yells and cheers of the citizens redoubled, while those of the cowboys died down. Mr. Melton chewed the end of his cigar fiercely, and swore softly to himself.

But Tom and Dick were not deceived. "The old reprobate's only stalling," yelled Dick into Tom's ear, at the same time pounding him frantically on the back. "He isn't going his limit, by a whole lot. Watch him, now, just watch——" but his words were drowned in the shrill cowboy yell that split the air. "Yi, yi, yi!" they shouted, half crazy with excitement. For Bert, their champion, suddenly seemed to be galvanized into furious action. He leaped ahead, seeming to dart through the air as though equipped with wings. Johnson gave a startled glance over his shoulder, and then exerted himself to the utmost. But he might as well have stood still as far as any good it did him was concerned. Bert was resolved to make a decisive finish, and show these doubting Westerners what a son of the East could do. Over the last hundred yards of the course he exerted every ounce of strength in him, and the result was as decisive as even Dick and Tom could desire. Amid a tremendous pandemonium he dashed down the stretch like a thunderbolt, and breasted the tape sixty feet in advance of his laboring rival.

Words fail to describe the uproar that then broke loose. A yelling mob of cowboys swept down onto the field, and, surrounding Bert, showered praise and congratulations. Swearing joyfully, Reddy, Chip, Bud and several of the others of the cross diamond outfit elbowed their way through the crowd at one point, while Mr. Melton, Dick and Tom edged through at another.

"All right, boys," laughed Mr. Melton, "give him a chance to get his breath back, though, before you shake his hands off altogether. Let's work a path to the dressing room for him."

This was no sooner said than done. Dick and Tom, assisted by Reddy and the others, fought a path through the excited crowd, and at last got Bert into the dressing room under the grandstand.

"Waal, m' lad, yuh certainly put it all over that maverick," exulted Reddy; "one time there, though, we figgered he had you beaten to a stand-still. It was sure a treat the way yuh breezed past him at the finish, it sure was."

"I was worried some myself," admitted Mr. Melton, "but I suppose I ought to have known better."

Meanwhile Bert had taken a shower, and started to dress. In a few minutes he was ready to leave the dressing room, and they all started out. Just as Bert was going through the door Johnson, who had had a hard time getting through the crowd, entered. As they passed Bert said, "Maybe this will teach you to stick to straight racing, Summers. Take my advice and cut out the crooked stuff. It doesn't pay in the end."

The defeated athlete started, and muttered an oath. "I know who you are now," he exclaimed. "I recognized you first thing, but couldn't place you. It's just my luck," he continued bitterly. "If I'd had any idea who I was going to run against I'd have backed out. But I'll get even with you some day for queering my game, see if I don't."

"Do your worst," invited Bert. "So long," and he hastened after his friends, who had gone on slowly during this time. "What did he say?" inquired Tom, and Bert repeated the substance of the brief exchange of talk. "But I'm not worrying much over his threats," he finished. "I imagine he'll be a little more careful in the future."

They then repaired directly to the hotel, where they had supper. Afterward they went out again to view an elaborate display of fireworks given under the auspices of the town. Everywhere were hilarious cowboys, who as soon as they recognized Bert crowded about the party and made progress difficult. At last they struggled to a point of vantage where they could see everything going on, and spent an enjoyable evening.

About ten o'clock they returned to the hotel, and after securing their ponies set out on the long ride back to camp, accompanied by such of the ranchmen as could tear themselves away so early. They straggled in singly and in couples all the next day, and it was almost a week before the affairs of the ranch settled down into their usual well-ordered condition.

From that time on, the regard in which the three comrades were held by the rough Westerners never wavered, and the cowboys never wearied of discussing again and again the details of the great race that clipped the wings of the "townies."