Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an' wild. He said thet was
a race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a trick or let a man
of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you'd let him come."

A light flitted across Bostil's face.

"I know how Cordts feels," he said.

"Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a long time you've meant to
draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet."

"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice sounded
differently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then shut in
a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man. The memory, no doubt,
was haunting and ghastly.

"Cordts seemed to think his word was guarantee of his good faith. He said he'd
send an Indian in here to find out if he can come to the races. I reckon,
Bostil, thet it wouldn't hurt none to let him come. An' hold your gun hand fer
the time he swears he'll be honest. Queer deal, ain't it, men? A hoss-thief
turnin' honest jest to see a race! Beats me! Bostil, it's a cheap way to get
at least a little honesty from Cordts. An' refusin' might rile him bad. When
all's said Cordts ain't as bad as he could be."

"I'll let him come," replied Bostil, breathing deep. "But it'll be hard to see
him, rememberin' how he's robbed me, an' what he's threatened. An' I ain't
lettin' him come to bribe a few weeks' decency from him. I'm doin' it for only
one reason. . . . Because I know how he loves the King--how he wants to see
the King run away from the field thet day! Thet's why!"