together, Whiskey Bill half a length in the lead and gaining at every
stride. Daylight showed between them when they crossed the line. Chiquito
had been outrun by a speedier horse.




CHAPTER III

DAVE RIDES ON HIS SPURS


Hart came up to his friend grinning. "Well, you old horn-toad, we got no
kick comin'. Chiquito run a mighty pretty race. Only trouble was his
laigs wasn't long enough."

The owner of the pony nodded, a lump in his throat. He was not thinking
about his thirty-five dollars, but about the futile race into which he
had allowed his little beauty to be trapped. Dave would not be twenty-one
till coming grass, and it still hurt his boyish pride to think that his
favorite had been beaten.

Another lank range-rider drifted up. "Same here, Dave. I'll kiss my
twenty bucks good-bye cheerful. You 'n' the li'l hoss run the best race,
at that. Chiquito started like a bullet out of a gun, and say, boys! how
he did swing round on the turn."

"Much obliged, Steve. I reckon he sure done his best," said Sanders
gratefully.