they are."
The gambler frowned. "I was about to say that there was only one horse in the race, but—" He shook his head despairingly as he looked over the riders. He was hunting automatically for the fleshless face and angular body of a jockey; among them all Charlie Haig came the closest to this light ideal. He was a sun-dried fellow, but even Charlie must have weighed well over a hundred and forty pounds; the others made no pretensions toward small poundage, and Cliff Jones must have scaled two hundred.
"Which was the one hoss in your eyes?" asked the hotel man eagerly.
"The gray. But with that weight up the little fellow will be anchored."
He pointed to a gray gelding which nosed confidently at the back hip pockets of his master.
"Less than fifteen hands," continued Connor, "and a hundred and eighty pounds to break his back. It isn't a race; it's murder to enter a horse handicapped like that."
"The gray?" repeated Jack Townsend, and he glanced from the corner of his eyes at his companion, as though he suspected mockery. "I never seen the gray before," he went on. "Looks sort of underfed, eh?"
Connor apparently did not hear. He had raised his head and his nostrils trembled, so that Townsend did not know whether the queer fellow was about to break into laughter or a trade.
"Yet," muttered Connor, "he might carry it. God, what a horse!"
He still looked at the gelding, and Townsend rubbed his eyes and stared to make sure that he had not overlooked some possibilities in the gelding. But he saw again only a lean-ribbed pony with a long neck and a high croup. The horse wheeled, stepping as clumsily as a gangling yearling. Townsend's amazement changed to suspicion and then to indifference.
"Well," he said, smiling covertly, "are you going to bet on that?"
Connor made no answer. He stepped up to the owner of the gray, a swarthy man of Indian blood. His half sleepy, half sullen expression cleared when Connor shook hands and introduced himself as a lover of fast horse-flesh.
He even congratulated the Indian on owning so fine a specimen, at which apparently subtle mockery Townsend, in the rear, set his teeth to keep from smiling; and the big Indian also frowned, to see if there were any hidden insult. But Connor had stepped back and was looking at the forelegs of the gelding.
"There's bone for you," he said exultantly. "More than eight inches, eh—that Cannon?"
"Huh," grunted the owner, "I dunno."
But his last shred of suspicion disappeared as Connor, working his fingers along the shoulder muscles of the animal, smiled with pleasure and admiration.
"My name's Bert Sims," said the Indian, "and I'm glad to know you. Most of the boys in Lukin think my hoss ain't got a chance in this race."
"I think they're right," answered Connor without hesitation.
The eyes of the Indian flashed.
"I think you're putting fifty pounds too much weight on him," explained Connor.
"Yeh?"
"Can't another man ride your horse?"
"Anybody can ride him."
"Then let that fellow yonder—that youngster—have the mount. I'll back the gray to the bottom of my pocket if you do."
"I wouldn't feel hardly natural seeing another man on him," said the Indian. "If he's rode I'll do the riding. I've done it for fifteen years."
"What?"
"Fifteen years."
"Is that horse fifteen years old?" asked Connor, prepared to smile.
"He is eighteen," answered Bert Sims quietly.
The gambler cast a quick glance at Sims and a longer one at the gray. He parted the lips of the horse, and then cursed softly.
"You're right," said Connor. "He is eighteen."
He was frowning in deadly earnestness now.
"Accident, I suppose?"
The Indian merely stared at him.
"Is the horse a strain of blood or an accident? What's his breed?"
"He's an Eden gray."
"Are there more like him?"
"The valley's full of 'em, they say," answered Bert Sims.
"What valley?" snapped the gambler.
"I ain't been in it. If I was I wouldn't talk."
"Why not?"
In reply Sims rolled the yellow-stained whites of his eyes slowly toward his interlocutor. He did not turn his head, but a smile gradually began on his lips and spread to a sinister hint at mirth. It put a grim end to the conversation, and Connor turned reluctantly to Townsend. The latter was clamoring.
"They're getting ready for the start. Are you betting on that runt of a gray?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Conner shook his head almost sadly. "A horse that stands not a hair more than fourteen-three, eighteen years old, with a hundred and eighty pounds up—No, I'm not a fool."
"Which is it—the roan or the bay?" gasped Townsend. "Which d'you say? I'll tell you about the valley after the race. Which hoss, Mr. Connor?"
Thus appealed to, the gambler straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked coldly at the horses.
"How old is that brown yonder—the one the boy is just mounting?"
"Three. But what's he got to do with the race?"
"He's a shade too young, or he'd win it. That's what he has to do with it. Back Haig's horse, then. The roan is the best bet."
"Have you had a good look at Lightnin'?"
"He won't last in this going with that weight up."
"You're right," panted Townsend. "And I'm going to risk a hundred on him. Hey, Joe, how d'you bet on Charlie Haig?"
"Two to one."
"Take you for a hundred. Joe, meet Mr. Connor."
"A hundred it is, Jack. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Connor?"
"I'll go a hundred on the roan, sir."
"Have I done it right?" asked Townsend fiercely, a little later. "I wonder do you know?"
"Ask
