Ted Strong's Motor Car Part 53

"Bud is going to race Hatrack against that magpie horse grazing out there, and throw in a six-shooter if the old gent wins."

Sol Flatbush turned and looked at the magpie pony, then at the old man.

Suddenly a gleam of intelligence illuminated his face, and he grinned.

"Say, Bud, I wisht ye'd come over yere an' look at this buckskin's off hind foot, an' tell me what ye thinks o' it. He's been actin' powerful queer on it all day."

Bud rose lazily and followed Sol out of camp. The buckskin was grazing peacefully a few hundred yards away, and as they walked toward it Sol Flatbush said:

"Bud, d'ye know that ole maverick?"

"I sh.o.r.e don't. Never even ast him his name," answered Bud.

"Well, I do. That's ole 'Cap' Norris. He's a hoss sharp fer fair. He an'

that boy don't do nothin' but ride the country with that magpie hoss, pickin' up races at cow camps an' ranches an' in towns. That hoss o'

hisn is a 'ringer.' His real name is Idlewild, an' he's a perfessional race hoss. Boy, yer stung!"

CHAPTER XXVI

"VAMOSE!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Bud quietly, as Sol Flatbush made this announcement of the ability of Magpie, or Idlewild, as he was known elsewhere.

"But I do," urged Sol. "I see that hoss run at Ponca City on ther Fo'th o' July a year ago, an' he jest run away from ther best Indian racers what ther Osages could bring over, an' yer knows they kin go some."

"Sol, my son, don't git excited. Yer Uncle Bud knows what he's doin'

when he's going inter this yere race. He ain't tellin' ther ole man, nor none o' you fellers, what thar is in thet Hatrack hoss."

"Got somethin' up yer sleeve?"

"I reckon I hev. If I was a bettin' man, I'd wager my share o' Moon Valley that Hatrack would win this yere race."

"Sho; yer don't say!"

"Ted seen him run. Ask him. Now, don't you worry none about me. I know a hoss when I see one standin' on its four legs. That magpie hoss is a good one, whether his name is Magpie or Idlewild. Ther name don't make him run no better. But Hatrack is some, too, an' I want that magpie pony for Stella. She ain't got no hoss of her own down yere, an' that spotted pony is jest ther sort o' showy hoss what a gal likes."

"Well, I ain't wantin' ter be b.u.t.tin' in none," said Sol, in a crestfallen way.

"Yer ain't b.u.t.ted in none, Sol. I'm obliged ter yer fer givin' me ther tip erbout ther old sharp. When he fust braced me I sized him up fer a sharp, an' when he told me he was a hoss trader from Missouri I had a straight line on him."

They returned to camp, where the old man was still regaling the boys with anecdotes, having proved himself a most entertaining story-teller.

The boy sat close beside him listening, but never saying a word, except when he was addressed. He was small and slender, and evidently weighed much less than a hundred pounds.

His face was small and thin, and apparently youthful, but his eyes were old and shrewd, and there was a crafty look about his face at times when the old man brought out a point in a story. Evidently he had heard these stories many times before. When he smiled it was in a sly and furtive way.

Ted Strong had come in from riding around the herd, having inspected it before it was bedded down for the night. He had heard all about the proposed race, and smiled quietly as Ben joshed Bud about the loss of his pony Hatrack on the morrow.

He had looked the boy over carefully, and his impression was not pleasant.

"I tell yer what, boys," said the old man, when conversation began to lag. "S'posin' we put this race off until to-morrow afternoon, an' run it over at Snyder, across the line in Oklahomy?"

"What's ther occasion?" asked Bud.

"Jest ter give ther people over thar a chance ter see a real live race.

Besides, I'm out o' money, an' I reckon we could have a reg'lar race, an' charge admission. That would enable me an' my grandson ter git back ter ole Missou' again. We ain't much use out here. What d'yer say?"

"I ain't no professional racer," said Bud slowly, "an' I ain't in this race fer what I kin make out o' it. Yer made yer brag about yer hoss an'

slurred mine, an' I'm jest game enough ter lose him if he can't beat that calcimined hoss o' yours, but I don't go in fer bettin' er none o'

thet sort o' thing."

"I ain't said nothin' about bettin'," said the old man, in an injured tone.

"I know yer ain't, an' I ain't accused yer o' it none. What I wuz goin'

ter say wuz thet if yer hard up an' need ther money ter take yer home I'm ther first feller ter jump in ter help yer."

"We're all willing to help on a thing like that," said Ted.

"Then ye'll consent ter pull off ther race in Snyder?" asked the old man eagerly.

"I am, if ther other boys will consent ter it," said Bud.

"All right with me," said Ted, and the other boys voiced their a.s.sent.

It looked as if there was a good bit of fun in prospect.

"Thanks, boys," said the old man, with a catch in his voice, as if he was deeply touched. "Ye'll do a good turn fer me an' little Bill here.

Bill, we'll git home fer Christmas yit."

"If you're going to make it a public race, you'll have to get over to Snyder early to make arrangements," said Ted.

"I'll leave before sunup in ther mornin', an' we'll have the race at three o'clock. Is that all satisfactory?"

This proved satisfactory to the boys, and, having agreed to be on hand in time with Hatrack, every one turned in.

When the boys turned out in the morning the blankets which the old man and the boy had occupied were empty and cold, showing that they had departed long before daylight.

"There's something fishy about that old chap," said Ben Tremont, as they were at breakfast.

"Of course, there is," said Ted. "He's an old horse sharp. Sol Flatbush knows him. He wants a race in town, thinking he can draw us into betting. He doesn't know that we never gamble, but he evidently believes that in the excitement of the moment he will be able to get some of our money."

"Well, he'll get fooled on that," said Ben.

"He'll git fooled in several other ways, too," grunted Bud.

After breakfast Bud went out and roped Hatrack, and after a tussle that lasted several strenuous minutes, brought him into camp. Hatrack certainly was a sorry-looking beast.