And we'll be cowboys 'til we die!"

Out in the street horses snorted and whirled against each other, spurs
rattled, and leather creaked as the men leaped into their saddles.
With a thunder of hoofs, a whirl of white dust, the slapping of quirts
and ropes against horses' flanks, the wicked bark of forty-fives, and a
series of Comanche-like yells the cowboys dashed out onto the flat.
Once more Tex Benton found himself drawn up side by side with Jack
Purdy before the girl, for whose handkerchief they had raced. Both
waved their hats, and Alice smiled as she waved her handkerchief in
return.

"Looks like I was settin' back with an ace in the hole, so far,"
muttered Tex, audibly.

Purdy scowled: "Ace in the hole's all right _sometimes_. But it's the
lad that trails along with a pair of deuces back to back that comes up
with the chips, cashin' in time."

Slim Maloney announced a quarter-mile dash and when Purdy lined up with
the starters, Tex quietly eased his horse between two wagons, and,
slipping around behind the lumber-piles, rode back to the Headquarters
Saloon. The place was deserted and in a chair beside a card table,
with his head buried in his arms, sat Cinnabar Joe, asleep. The
cowpuncher crossed the room and shook him roughly by the shoulder:

"Hey, Joe--wake up!"

The man rolled uneasily and his eyelids drew heavily apart. He mumbled
incoherently.