The fact remained, however, that there were only two wagers against the King, and both were put up by Indians.  Macomber was betting on second or third place for his horse in the big race.  No odds of Bostil’s tempted him.

“Say, where’s Wetherby?” rolled out Bostil.  “He’ll back his hoss.”

“Wetherby’s ridin’ over to-morrow,” replied Macomber.  “But you gotta bet him two to one.”

“See hyar, Bostil,” spoke up old Cal Blinn, “you jest wait till I git an eye on the King’s runnin’.  Mebbe I’ll go you even money.”

“An’ as fer me, Bostil,” said Colson, “I ain’t set up yit which hoss I’ll race.”

Burthwait, an old rider, came forward to Brackton’s desk and entered a wager against the field that made all the men gasp.

“By George! pard, you ain’t a-limpin’ along!” ejaculated Bostil, admiringly, and he put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Bostil, I’ve a grand hoss,” replied Burthwait.  “He’s four years old, I guess, fer he was born wild, an’ you never seen him.”

“Wild hoss? . . .  Huh!” growled Bostil.  “You must think he can run.”

“Why, Bostil, a streak of lightnin’ ain’t anywheres with him.”

“Wal, I’m glad to hear it,” said Bostil, gruffly.  “Brack, how many hosses entered now for the big race?”

The lean, gray Brackton bent earnestly over his soiled ledger, while the riders and horsemen round him grew silent to listen.

“Thar’s the Sage King by Bostil,” replied Brackton.  “Blue Roan an’ Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait.  Then thar’s the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an’ Silver—­an’ last—­Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil.”

“What’s thet last?” queried Bostil.

“Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil,” repeated Brackton.

“Has the girl gone an’ entered a hoss?”

“She sure has.  She came in to-day, regular an’ business-like, writ her name an’ her hoss’s—­here ‘tis—­an’ put up the entrance money.”

“Wal, I’ll be d—­d!” exclaimed Bostil.  He was astonished and pleased.  “She said she’d do it.  But I didn’t take no stock in her talk. . . .  An’ the hoss’s name?”

“Wildfire.”

“Huh! . . .  Wildfire.  Mebbe thet girl can’t think of names for hosses!  What’s this hoss she calls Wildfire?”

“She sure didn’t say,” replied Brackton.  “Holley an’ Van an’ some more of the boys was here.  They joked her a little.  You oughter seen the look Lucy give them.  But fer once she seemed mum.  She jest walked away mysterious like.”

“Lucy’s got a pony off some Indian, I reckon,” returned Bostil, and he laughed.  “Then thet makes ten hosses entered so far?”

“Right.  An’ there’s sure to be one more.  I guess the track’s wide enough for twelve.”

“Wal, Brack, there’ll likely be one hoss out in front an’ some stretched out behind,” replied Bostil, dryly.  “The track’s sure wide enough.”