"
Skinner's eyes gleamed. "I wish I had a couple of hundred to bet
on myself."
"Broke, eh?"
"I'm as clean as a hound's tooth."
"I'm sorry y'all tossed off your wages, but"--Gallagher started
suspiciously--"say! I reckon that won't affect your runnin' none,
will it?"
Skinner admitted that he could run best when he had something to
run for. "You might advance me a month's wages," he reflected.
"I'll do it. Hello! Say, ain't that one of them Flyin' Heart city
visitors?" From the direction of the ranch buildings Berkeley
Fresno was approaching.
"Good-afternoon! You are Mr. Gallagher, I believe? I rode over
with our crowd just now." Fresno looked back. "Let's step around
to the other side of the corral; I want to talk to you." He led
the way; then inquired, "Is this your runner?"
"That's him. His name's Skinner, and that's a promisin' title to
bet on." Gallagher slipped a roll of bank-notes from his pocket.
"Unhook! I'll bet you."
"No, no! I think myself Mr. Skinner will win. That's why I'm
here."
"Strip your hand, son.
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