Gunsight Pass | Page 3

a man ill to
cross. Dug Doble was a good cowman--none better. Outside of that his
known virtues were negligible, except for the primal one of gameness.
"Might as well lose a few bucks myself, seeing as Whiskey Bill
belongs to me," said Miller with his wheezy laugh. "Who wants to take
a whirl, boys?"
Inside of three minutes he had placed a hundred dollars. The terms of
the race were arranged and the money put in the hands of the foreman.
"Each man to ride his own caballo," suggested Hart slyly.
This brought a laugh. The idea of Ad Miller's two hundred and fifty
pounds in the seat of a jockey made for hilarity.
"I reckon George will have to ride the broomtail. We don't aim to break
its back," replied Miller genially.
His partner was a short man with a spare, wiry body. Few men trusted
him after a glance at the mutilated face. The thin, hard lips gave
warning that he had sold himself to evil. The low forehead, above
which the hair was plastered flat in an arc, advertised low mentality.
An hour later Buck Byington drew Sanders aside.
"Dave, you're a chuckle-haided rabbit. If ever I seen tinhorn sports
them two is such. They're collectin' a livin' off'n suckers. Didn't you
sabe that come-on stuff? Their pack-horse is a ringer. They tried him
out this evenin', but I noticed they ran under a blanket. Both of 'em are
crooked as a dog's hind laig."

"Maybeso," admitted the young man. "But Chiquito never went back
on me yet. These fellows may be overplayin' their hand, don't you
reckon?"
"Not a chanct. That tumblebug Miller is one fishy proposition, and his
sidekick Doble--say, he's the kind of bird that shoots you in the
stomach while he's shakin' hands with you. They're about as
warm-hearted as a loan shark when he's turnin' on the screws--and
about as impulsive. Me, I aim to button up my pocket when them guys
are around."
Dave returned to the fire. The two visitors were sitting side by side, and
the leaping flames set fantastic shadows of them moving. One of these,
rooted where Miller sat, was like a bloated spider watching its victim.
The other, dwarfed and prehensile, might in its uncanny silhouette have
been an imp of darkness from the nether regions.
Most of the riders had already rolled up in their blankets and fallen
asleep. To a reduced circle Miller was telling the story of how his
pack-horse won its name.
"... so I noticed he was actin' kinda funny and I seen four pin-pricks in
his nose. O' course I hunted for Mr. Rattler and killed him, then give
Bill a pint of whiskey. It ce'tainly paralyzed him proper. He got
salivated as a mule whacker on a spree. His nose swelled up till it was
big as a barrel--never did get down to normal again. Since which the ol'
plug has been Whiskey Bill."
This reminiscence did not greatly entertain Dave. He found his blankets,
rolled up in them, and promptly fell asleep. For once he dreamed, and
his dreams were not pleasant. He thought that he was caught in a net
woven by a horribly fat spider which watched him try in vain to break
the web that tightened on his arms and legs. Desperately he struggled to
escape while the monster grinned at him maliciously, and the harder he
fought the more securely was he enmeshed.

CHAPTER II
THE RACE
The coyotes were barking when the cook's triangle brought Dave from
his blankets. The objects about him were still mysterious in the
pre-dawn darkness. The shouting of the wranglers and the bells of the
remuda came musically as from a great distance. Hart joined his friend
and the two young men walked out to the remuda together. Each rider
had on the previous night belled the mount he wanted, for he knew that
in the morning it would be too dark to distinguish one bronco from
another. The animals were rim-milling, going round and round in a
circle to escape the lariat.
Dave rode in close and waited, rope ready, his ears attuned to the sound
of his own bell. A horse rushed jingling past. The rope snaked out, fell
true, tightened over the neck of the cowpony, brought up the animal
short. Instantly it surrendered, making no further, attempt to escape.
The roper made a half-hitch round the nose of the bronco, swung to its
back, and cantered back to camp.
In the gray dawn near details were becoming visible. The mountains
began to hover on the edge of the young world. The wind was blowing
across half a continent.
Sanders saddled, then rode out upon the mesa. He whistled sharply.
There came an answering nicker, and