The voice of George Doble cut in, openly and offensively jubilant. "Me,
I'd ruther show the way at the finish than at the start. You're more
liable to collect the mazuma. I'll tell you now that broomtail never
had a chance to beat Whiskey Bill."

"Yore hoss can run, seh," admitted Dave.

"I _know_ it, but you don't. He didn't have to take the kinks out of his
legs to beat that plug."

"You get our money," said Hart quietly. "Ain't that enough without
rubbin' it in?"

"Sure I get yore money--easy money, at that," boasted Doble. "Got any
more you want to put up on the circus bronc?"

Steve Russell voiced his sentiments curtly. "You make me good and tired,
Doble. There's only one thing I hate more'n a poor loser--and that's a
poor winner. As for putting my money on the pinto, I'll just say this:
I'll bet my li'l' pile he can beat yore bay twenty miles, a hundred
miles, or five hundred."

"Not any, thanks. Whiskey Bill is a racer, not a mule team," Miller said,
laughing.

Steve loosened the center-fire cinch of his pony's saddle. He noted that
there was no real geniality in the fat man's mirth. It was a surface
thing designed to convey an effect of good-fellowship. Back of it lay
the chill implacability of the professional gambler.