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out life itself in this manner, then sat down upon the floor and cocked the weapon a second time. He wondered if the shock might, by any chance, numb him into unconsciousness. If so, he might bleed to death before assistance arrived. But he had nothing to do with that. The only question was, which foot. He regarded them both tenderly. They were nice feet, and had done him many favors. He loved every toe; they were almost like innocent children. It was a dastardly deed to take advantage of them thus, but he advanced the revolver until it pressed firmly against the outside of his left foot, then closed his eyes, and called upon his courage. There came a great roaring in his ears.

How long he sat thus waiting for the explosion he did not know, but he opened his eyes at length to find the foot still intact, and the muzzle of the weapon pointing directly at his instep. He altered his aim hurriedly, when, without warning of any sort, a man's figure appeared silhouetted against the window.

The figure dropped noiselessly to the floor inside the room, and cried, in a strange voice:

"Lock those doors! Quick!"

Finding that it was no hallucination, Speed rose, calling out:

"Who are you?"

"Sh-h-h!" The stranger darted across the room and bolted both doors, while the other felt a chill of apprehension at these sinister precautions. He grasped his revolver firmly while his heart thumped. The fellow's appearance was anything but reassuring: he was swarthy and sun-browned, his clothes were ragged, his overalls were patched; instead of a coat, he wore a loosely flapping vest over a black sateen shirt, long since rusted out to a nondescript brown.

"I've been trying to get to you for a week," announced the mysterious visitor hoarsely.

"W-what do you want? Who are you?"

"I'm Skinner, cook for the Centipede."

"The man I race?"

"Not so loud." Skinner was training for the faintest sound from the direction of the mess-house.

"I'll kill him!" exulted the Eastern lad. But the other forestalled a murder by running on, rapidly:

"Listen, now! Humpy and I jobbed this gang last month; we're pardners, see? He's got another race framed at Pocatello, and I want to make a get-away—"

"Yes! yes! y-you needn't stay here—on my account."

"Now don't let's take any chances to-morrow, see? We're both out for the coin. What do you want to do—win or lose?" Skinner jumped back to the door and listened.

"What?"

"Don't stall!" the stranger cried, impatiently. "Will I win or will you? What's it worth?" He clipped his words short, his eyes darted furtive glances here and there.

"Can I win?" gasped Speed.

"You can if there's enough in it for me. I'm broke, see? You bet five hundred, and we'll cut it two ways."

"I-I haven't that much with me."

"Borrow it. Don't be a boob. Meet me in Albuquerque Sunday, and we'll split there."

"Is that all I have to do?"

"Certainly. What's the matter with you, anyhow?" Skinner cast a suspicious glance at his companion.

"I-I guess I'm rattled—it's all so sudden."

"Of course you'll have to run, fast enough so we don't tip off."

"How fast is that?"

"Oh, ten-four," carelessly. "That's what Humpy and I did."

"Ten and four-fifths-seconds?"

"Certainly. Don't kid me! They're liable to break in on us." Skinner stepped to the window, but Speed halted him with a trembling hand and a voice of agony.

"Mr. Skinner, I-I can't run that fast. F-fifteen is going some for me."

"What!" Skinner stared at his opponent strangely. "That's right.
I'm a lemon."

"Ain't you the Yale champ? The guy that goes under 'even time'?"

Wally shook his head. "I'm his chum. I couldn't catch a cramp."

The brown face of the Centipede sprinter split into a grin, his eyes gleamed. "Then I'll win," said he. "I'm the sucker, but I'll make good. Get your money down, and I'll split with you."

"No, no! Not you! Me! I must win!" Speed clutched his caller desperately.

"All right, I'll frame anything; but I can't run any slower than
I did with Joe and make a live of it. They'd shoot us both."

"But there's a girl in this-a girl I love. It means more than mere life."

Skinner was plainly becoming nervous at the length of the interview.

"Couldn't you fall down?" inquired the younger man, timidly.

The cook laughed derisively. "I could fall down twice and beat you in fifteen." After an instant's thought:

"Say, there's one chance, if we don't run straight away. There's a corral out where we race; you insist on running around it, see? There's nothing in the articles about straight-aways. That'll kid 'em on the time. If I get too far ahead, I'll fall down."

"B-but will you stay down? Till I catch up?"

"Sure! Leave it to me."

"You won't forget, or anything like that?"

"Certainly not. But no rough work in front of the cowboys, understand? Sh-h!"

Skinner vaulted lightly through the window, landing in the dirt outside without a sound. "Somebody coming," he whispered. "Understand Merchants' Hotel, Albuquerque, noon, Sunday." And the next instant he had vanished into the dusk, leaving behind him a youth half hysterical with hope.

Out of the blackest gloom had come J. Wallingford Speed's deliverance, and he did not pause to consider the ethics involved. If he had he would have told himself that by Skinner's own confession the Centipede had won through fraud at the first race; if they were paid back in their own coin now it would be no more than tardy justice. With light heart he hastened to replace the borrowed revolver in the bunk-room just as voices coming nearer betokened the arrival of his friends from the house. As he stepped out into the night he came upon Jack Chapin.

"Hello, Wally!"

"Hello, Jack!" They shook hands, while the owner of the Flying
Heart continued.

"I've just got in, and they've been telling me about this foot- race. What in the deuce is the matter with you, anyhow? Why didn't you let me know?"

The girls drew closer, and Speed saw that Miss Blake was pale.

"I wouldn't have allowed it for a minute. Now, of course, I'm going to call it off."

"Oh, Jack, dear, you simply can't!" exclaimed his sister. "You've no idea the state the boys are in."

"They'll never let you, Chapin," supplemented Fresno.

The master laughed shortly. "They won't, eh? Who is boss here,
I'd like to know?"

"They've bet a lot of money. And you know how they feel about that phonograph."

"It's the most idiotic thing I ever heard of. Whatever possessed you, Wally? If the men make a row, I'll have to smuggle you and Glass over to the railroad to-night."

"I'm for that," came the voice of Larry.

"I suppose it's all my fault," Miss Blake began wretchedly, whereat the object of their general solicitude took on an aspect of valor.

"Say, what is all this fuss about? I don't want to be smuggled anywhere, thank you!"

"I may not be able to square my men," Chapin reiterated. "It may have gone too far."

"Square! Square! Why should you do any squaring? I'm not going to run-away." Miss Blake clasped her hands and breathed a sigh. "I've got to stay here and run a foot-race to-morrow."

"Don't be a fool, Wally!" Covington added his voice to the others.

Speed whirled angrily. "I don't need your advice—convict!" The champion hobbled hastily out of range. "I know what I'm doing. I'm going to run to-morrow, and I stand a good chance to win."

Mr. Fresno, if he had been a girl, would have been said to have giggled.

"All right, Dearie! I'll bet you five hundred dollars—" as there emerged from the darkness, whence they had approached unseen, Stover, and behind him the other men.

"Evenin'! What's all the excitement?" greeted the leader, softly.

The master of the ranch stepped forward.

"See here, Bill, I'm sorry, but I won't stand for this foot- race."

"Why not?" queried the foreman.

"I just won't, that's all. You'll have to call it off."

"I'm sorry, too."

"You refuse?" The owner spoke ominously.

"You bet he does!" Willie pushed himself forward. "This foot-race is ordained, and it comes off on time. I make bold to inquire if you're talkin' for our runner?"

"Gentlemen, I can only say to you that for myself I want to run!" declared Speed.

"Then you'll run."

"I refuse to allow it," Chapin declared, and instantly there was an angry murmur; but before it could take definite form, Speed spoke up with equal decisiveness.

"You can't refuse to let me run, Jack. There are reasons"—he searched Miss Blake's countenance—"why I must run—and win. And win I shall!" Turning, he stalked away into the darkness, and there followed him a shout of approbation from the ranchmen.

Jack Chapin threw up his hands.

"I've done my best."

"The man's mad!" cried Covington, but Fresno was nearer the truth. "Nothing of the sort," he remarked, and struck a match; "he's bluffing!"

As for Helen Blake, she shook her fair head and smiled into the night.

"You are all wrong," she said. "I know!"

CHAPTER XVI

The day of the race dawned bright and fair, without a cloud to mar its splendor. As the golden morning wore on, a gradual excitement became apparent among the cowboys, increasing as the hours passed, and as they prepared with joy to invade their rival's territory; nevertheless, the vigilant watch upon their champion did not relax. Theirs was an attitude of confidence tinged with caution.

It was some time after midnight that Lawrence Glass had been the cause of a wild alarm that brought the denizens of the ranch out in night apparel. Jack Chapin, awakened by a cry for help, had found him in the hands of Carara and Cloudy, who had been doing night duty in accordance with Stover's orders. What with the trainer's loud complaints, the excited words of his captors, and the confusion resulting when the bunk-house emptied itself of men half clad, it had taken the ranch-owner some time to discover that Glass had been surprised in the act of escaping. It seemed that the sentries, seeing a figure skulking past the white adobe walls of the house, had called upon it to halt. There had been a dash for liberty, then a furious struggle before the intruder's identity became clear, and but for Chapin's prompt arrival upon the scene violence would inevitably have resulted. As it was, the owner had difficulty in restraining his men, who saw in this significant effort a menace to their hopes.

"I tell you, I'm walkin' in my sleep," declared Glass for the twentieth time.

"Caramba! You try for get away," stormed the Mexican. "Pig!"

"Not a bit like it! I've been a sonnambulust ever since I'm a baby."

"Why didn't you answer when we called?" Cloudy demanded.

"How can I talk when I'm sound asleep?"

"If you couldn't hear us call, why did you run?"

"Now have a little sense, pal. A sleep-walker don't know what he's doin'."

"Since there's no harm done, you'd better all go back to bed," Chapin advised. "Mr. Glass has the liberty of the ranch, boys, night or day, asleep or awake."

"Looks to me like he was tryin' to elope some." Stover balanced upon one bare foot, and undertook to remove a sand-burr from the other. In the darkness he seemed supernaturally tall, so that Glass hastened to strengthen his story.

"I was walkin' in my sleep as nice as you please when those rummies lep' on me. Say! You know that's dangerous; you can kill a guy wakin' him up so sudden."

"There's easier ways than that," spoke Willie from the gloom.

"It's a yap trick just the same. I was in the middle of a swell dream, too."

"Come, come, Stover, get your boys back to bed! We'll have the whole ranch up with this noise."

Chapin himself led Glass around the house, while that gentleman made no offer to explain the dream which had prompted him to pack his suit-case before letting himself out of the training- quarters. Once safely back in the gymnasium, he sat up till dawn, a prey to frightful visions which the comfortable morning light did not serve to dissipate.

Wally Speed slept serenely through the whole disturbance, and was greatly amused at the story when he awoke. He was sorely tempted to make known his agreement with Skinner, and put an end to his trainer's agony of mind; but he recalled Skinner's caution, and reflected that the slightest indiscretion might precipitate a tragedy. For the first time since the