from the draw. For hours the riders were kept busy moving forward the
cattle that had been watered and holding back the pressure of thirsty
animals.

Again the outfit took the desert trail. Heat waves played on the sand.
Vegetation grew scant except for patches of cholla and mesquite, a
sand-cherry bush here and there, occasionally a clump of shining poison
ivy.

Sunset brought them to the Salt Flats. The foreman gave orders to throw
off and make camp.

A course was chosen for the race. From a selected point the horses
were to run to a clump of mesquite, round it, and return to the
starting-place. Dug Doble was chosen both starter and judge.

Dave watched Whiskey Bill with the trained eyes of a horseman. The animal
was an ugly brute as to the head. Its eyes were set too close, and the
shape of the nose was deformed from the effects of the rattlesnake's
sting. But in legs and body it had the fine lines of a racer. The horse
was built for speed. The cowpuncher's heart sank. His bronco was fast,
willing, and very intelligent, but the little range pony had not been
designed to show its heels to a near-thoroughbred.

"Are you ready?" Doble asked of the two men in the saddles.

His brother said, "Let 'er go!" Sanders nodded. The revolver barked.

Chiquito was off like a flash of light, found its stride instantly. The
training of a cowpony makes for alertness, for immediate response. Before