Five minutes later Terry was three hundred behind. A mysterious
providence seemed to send all the luck the way of the heavy, tanned thumb
of Pollard.

"That's my limit," he announced abruptly, rising.

"No, no!" Pollard spread out his big hand on the table. "You got the red
hoss, son. You can bet to a thousand. He's worth that--to me!"

"I won't bet a cent on him," said Terry firmly.

"Every damn cent I've won from you ag'in' the hoss, son. That's a lot of
cash if you win. If you lose, you're just out that much hossflesh, and
I'll give you a good enough cayuse to take El Sangre's place."

"A dozen wouldn't take his place," insisted Terry.

"That so?"

Pollard leaned back in his chair and put a hand behind his neck to
support his head. It seemed to Terry that the big man made some odd
motion with his hidden fingers. At any rate, the four men who lounged on
the farther side of the room now rose and slowly drifted in different
directions. Oregon Charlie wandered toward the door. Slim sauntered to
the window behind the piano and stood idly looking out into the night.
Phil Marvin began to examine a saddle hanging from a peg on one of the
posts, and finally, chunky Marty Cardiff strolled to the kitchen door and
appeared to study the hinges.