"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.
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