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  "Where is he?"

  Being the one man on the Flying Heart who had occasion to wear a gun, Willie seldom smiled from a sense of humor. Here it may be said that, deceived at first by his scholarly appearance, his fellow-laborers had jibed at Willie's affectation of a swinging holster, but the custom had languished abruptly. When it became known who he was, the other ranch-hands had volubly declared that this was a free country, where a man might exercise a wide discretion in the choice of personal adornment; and as for them, they avowed unanimously that the practice of packing a Colts was one which met with their most cordial approbation. In time Willie's six-shooter had become accepted as a part of the local scenery, and, like the scenery, no one thought of remarking upon it, least of all those who best knew his lack of humor. He had come to them out of the Nowhere, some four years previously, and while he never spoke of himself, and discouraged reminiscence in others, it became known through those vague uncharted channels by which news travels on the frontier, that back in the Texas Panhandle there was a limping marshal who felt regrets at mention of his name, and that farther north were other men who had a superstitious dread of undersized cow-men with spectacles. There were also stories of lonesome "run-ins," which, owing to Willie's secretiveness and the permanent silence of the other participants, never became more than intangible rumors. But he was a good ranchman, attended to his business, and the sheriff's office was remote, so Willie had worked on unmolested.

  "This here is a real foot-runner," said Stover.

  "Exactly," agreed the other. "Where is he?"

  "He'll be here this afternoon. Nigger Mike's bringin' him over from the railroad. He's a guest."

  "Oh!"

  "Yep! He's intercollegit champeen of Yale."

  "Yale?" repeated the near-sighted man. "Don't know's I ever been there. Much of a town?"

  "I ain't never travelled East myself, but Miss Jean and the

  little yaller-haired girl say he's the fastest man in the world.

  I figgered we might rib up something with the Centipede." Still

  Bill winked sagely.

  "See here, do you reckon he'd run?"

  "Sure! He's a friend of the boss. And he'll run on the level, too. He can't be nothin' like Humpy."

  "If he is, I'll git him," said the cowboy. "Oh, I'll git him sure, guest or no guest. But how about the phonograph?"

  "The Centipede will put it up quick enough; there ain't no sentiment in that outfit."

  "Then it sounds good."

  "An' it'll work. Gallagher's anxious to trim us again. Some folks can't stand prosperity."

  Willie spat unerringly at a grasshopper. "Lord!" said he, "it's too good! It don't sound possible."

  "Well, it is, and our man will be here this evenin'. Watch out for Nigger Mike, and when he drives up let's give this party a welcome that'll warm his heart on the jump. There's nothin' like a good impression."

  "I'll be on the job," assured Willie. "But I state right here and now, if we do get a race there ain't a-goin' to be no chance of our losin' for a second time."

  And Stover went on his way to spread the tidings.

  It was growing dark when the rattle of wheels outside the ranch- house brought the occupants to the porch in time to see Nigger Mike halt his buck-board and two figures prepare to descend.

  "It's Mr. Speed!" cried Miss Blake. Then she uttered a scream as the velvet darkness was rent by a dozen tongues of flame, while a shrill yelping arose, as of an Apache war-party.

  "It's the boys," said Jean. "What on earth has possessed them?"

  But Stover had planned no ordinary reception, and the pandemonium did not cease until the men had emptied their weapons.

  Then Mr. J. Wallingford Speed came stumbling up the steps and into the arms of his friends, the tails of his dust-coat streaming.

  "Really? This is more than I expected," he gasped; then turning, doffed his straw hat to the half-revealed figures beyond the light, and cried, gayly: "Thank you, gentlemen! Thank you for missing me!"

  "Yow—ee!" responded the cowboys.

  "How do you do, Miss Chapin!" Speed shook hands with his hostess, and in the radiance from the open doorway she saw that his face was round and boyish, and his smile peculiarly engaging.

  She welcomed him appropriately; then said: "This reception is quite as startling to us as to you. You know, Mr. Speed, that we have with us a friend of yours." She slightly drew Helen forward. "And this is Mrs. Keap, who is looking after us a bit while mother is away. Roberta, may I present Mr. Covington's friend, and ask you to be good to him?"

  "Don't forget me," said Fresno, pushing into the light.

  "Mr. Berkeley Fresno, of Leland Stanford University."

  "Hello, Frez!" Speed thrust out his hand warmly. Not so the

  Californian. He replied, with hauteur:

  "Fresno! F-r-e-s-n-o"; and allowed the new-comer to grasp a limp, moist hand.

  "Ah! Go to the head of the class! I'm sorry you broke your wrist, however." The Eastern lad spoke lightly, and gave the palm a hearty squeeze, then turned to Jean.

  "I dare say you are all disappointed, Miss Chapin, that Culver didn't come with me, but he'll be along in a day or so. I simply couldn't wait." He avoided glancing at Helen Blake, whose answering blush was lost in the darkness.

  "I did think when you drove up that might be Mr. Covington with you," Miss Chapin remarked, wistfully.

  "Oh no, that's my man." Speed glanced around him. "And, by-the- way, where is he?"

  The sound of angry voices came through the gloom, then out into the light came Still Bill Stover, Willie, and Carara, dragging between them a globular person who was rebelling loudly.

  "Stover, what is this?" questioned Miss Chapin, stepping to the edge of the veranda.

  "This gent stampedes in the midst of our welcome," explained the foreman, "so we have to rope him before he gets away." It was seen now that Carara's lariat was tightly drawn about the new arrival's waist.

  Then the valet broke into coherent speech, but he spoke a tongue not common to his profession.

  "Nix on that welcome stuff," he burst forth, in husky, alcoholic accents; "that goes on the door-mat!" It was plain that he was very angry. "If that racket means welcome, I don't want it. Take that clothes-line off of me." Carara loosened the noose, and his captive rolled up the steps mopping his face with his handkerchief.

  "What made you run away?" demanded Speed.

  "Any time a bunch of bandits unhitch their gats, I'm on my way," sputtered the fat man. "I'm gun-shy, see? And when this hold-up comes off I beat it till that Cuban rummy with the medals on his dicer rides a live horse up my back."

  "You don't appreciate the honor," explained his employer; then turning to the others, he announced: "Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Lawrence Glass? He isn't really a valet, you know, Miss Chapin, and he doesn't care for the West yet. It is his first trip."

  "I have heard my brother speak of Larry Glass," said Jean, graciously.

  Mr. Glass courtesied awkwardly, and swinging his right foot back of his left, tapped the floor with his toe. "You were a trainer at Yale when Jack was there?"

  "That's me," Mr. Glass wheezed. "I'm there with the big rub, too. Wally said he was going to train during vacation, so he staked me to a trip out here, and I came along to look after him."

  "Come into the house," said Jean. "Stover will see to your baggage."

  As they entered, Mr. Berkeley Fresno saw the late arrival bend over Helen Blake, and heard him murmur:

  "The same unforgettable eyes of Italian blue."

  And Mr. Fresno decided to dislike Wally Speed, even if it required an effort.

  CHAPTER IV

  It was on the following morning that Miss Blake made bold to request her favor from J. Wallingford Speed. They had succeeded in isolating themselves upon the vine-shaded gallery at the rear of the house, and the conversation had been largely of athletics, but this, judging from the rapt expression of the girl, was a subject of surpassi
ng interest. Speed, quick to take a cue, plunged on.

  "I would have made the Varsity basket-ball team myself if I hadn't been so tiny," said Helen. "I have always wanted to be tall, like Roberta."

  "I shouldn't care for that," said the young man. "You know she was a wonderful player?"

  "So I've heard."

  "Do you know," mused Helen, "I have never forgotten what you told me that first day we met. I think it was perfectly lovely of you."

  "What was that?" Now it must be admitted that J. Wallingford Speed, in his relations with the other sex, frequently found himself in a position requiring mental gymnastics of a high order; but, as a rule, his memory was good, and he seldom crossed his own trail, so to speak. In this instance he was utterly without remembrance, however, and hence was non-committal.

  "What you told me about your friendship for Mr. Covington. I think it is very unselfish of you."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," ventured the young man, vainly racking his brain. "Nobody could help liking Culver."

  "Yes; but how many men would step aside and let their best friend win prize after prize and never undertake to compete against him?" Speed blushed faintly, as any modest man might have done.

  "Did I tell you that?" he inquired.

  "Indeed you did."

  "Then please don't speak of it to a mortal soul. I must have said a great deal that first day, but—"

  "But I have spoken of it, and I said I thought it was fine of you."

  "You have spoken of it?"

  "Yes; I told Jean."

  The Yale man undertook to change the conversation abruptly, but

  Miss Blake was a determined young lady. She continued:

  "Of course, it was very magnanimous of you to always step aside in favor of your best friend; but it isn't fair to yourself—it really isn't. And so I have arranged a little plan whereby you can do something to prove your prowess, and still not interfere with Mr. Covington in the least."

  Speed cleared his throat nervously. "Tell me," he said, "what it is."

  And Miss Blake told him the story of the shocking treachery of Humpy Joe, together with the miserable undoing of the Flying Heart. "Why, those poor fellows are broken-hearted," she concluded. "Their despair over losing that talking-machine would be funny if it were not so tragic. I told them you would win it back for them. And you will, won't you? Please!" She turned her blue eyes upon him appealingly, and the young man was lost.

  "I'll take ten chances," he said. "Where does the raffle come off?"

  "Oh, it isn't a raffle, it's a foot-race. You must run with that

  Centipede cook."

  "I! Run a race!" exclaimed the young college man, aghast.

  "Yes, I've promised that you would. You see, this isn't like a college event, and Culver isn't here yet."

  "But he'll be here in a day or so." Speed felt as if a very large man were choking him; he decided his collar was too tight.

  "Oh, I've talked it all over with Jean. She doesn't want Culver to run, anyhow."

  "Why not?" inquired he, suspiciously.

  "I don't know, I'm sure."

  "If Miss Chapin doesn't want Culver to run, you surely wouldn't want me to."

  "Not at all. If Mr. Covington knew the facts of the case, he would be only too happy to do it. And, you see, you know the facts."

  Speed was about to shape a gracious but firm refusal of the proffered honor when Still Bill Stover appeared at the steps, doffed his faded Stetson, and bowed limply.

  "Mornin', Miss Blake." To the rear Speed saw three other men—an Indian, tall, swart, and saturnine, who walked with a limp; a picturesque Mexican with a spangled hat and silver spurs, evidently the captor of Lawrence Glass on the evening previous; and an undersized little man with thick-rimmed spectacles and a heavy-hanging holster from which peeped a gun-butt. All were smiling pleasantly, and seemed a bit abashed.

  "Good-morning, Mr. Stover," said Helen, pleasantly. "This is Mr. Speed, of whom I spoke to you yesterday." Stover bowed again and mumbled something about the honor of this meeting, and Miss Blake cast her eyes over the other members of the group, saying, graciously: "I'm afraid I can't introduce your friends; I haven't met them."

  The loquacious foreman came promptly to the rescue, rejoicing in an opportunity of displaying his oratorical gifts.

  "Then I'll make you acquainted with the best brandin' outfit in these parts." He waved a long, bony arm at the Mexican, who flashed his white teeth. "This Greaser is Aurelio Maria Carara. Need I say he's Mex, and a preemeer roper?" Carara bowed, and swept the ground with his high-peaked head-piece. "The Maduro gent yonder is Mr. Cloudy. His mother being a Navajo squaw, named him, accordin' to the rights and customs of her tribe, selecting the title of Cloudy-but-the-Sun-Shines, which same has proved a misnomer, him bein' a pessimist for fair."

  Miss Blake and her companion smiled and nodded, at which Stover, encouraged beyond measure, elaborated.

  "He's had a hist'ry, too. When he reaches man's real-estate the

  Injun agent ropes, throws, and hog-ties him, then sends him East

  to be cultivated. He spends four years kickin' a football—"

  Speed interrupted, with an exclamation of genuine interest.

  "Oh, it's true as gospel," the foreman averred. "When he goes lame in his off leg they ship him back, and in spite of them handicaps he has become one rustlin' savage at a round-up."

  "What college did you attend?" inquired Speed, politely. The question fell upon unresponsive ears. Cloudy did not stir nor alter the direction of his sombre glance.

  "He don' talk none," Stover explained. "Conversation, which I esteem as a gift deevine, is a lost art with him. I reckon he don't average a word a week. What language he did know he has forgot, and what he ain't forgot he distrusts."

  Turning to the near-sighted man who had been staring at the college youth meanwhile, the spokesman took a deep breath, and said, simply yet proudly, as if describing the piece de resistance of this exhibition:

  "The four-eyed gent is Willie, plain Willie, a born range-rider, and the best hip shot this side of the Santa Fe trail!"

  Speed beheld an undersized man of indeterminate age, hollow- chested, thin-faced, gravely benignant. It was not alone his glasses that lent him a scholarly appearance; he had the stooped shoulders, the thoughtful intensity of gaze, the gentle, hesitating backwardness of a book-raised man. There were tutors at Yale quite as colorless, characterless and indefinite, and immensely more forceful. In place of the revolver at his belt, it seemed as if Willie should have carried a geologist's pick, a butterfly-net, or a magnifying-glass: one was prepared to hear him speak learnedly of microscopy, or even, perhaps, of settlement work. As a cowboy he was utterly out of place, and it was quite impossible to take Stover's words seriously. Nevertheless, Speed acknowledged the introduction pleasantly, while the benevolent little man blinked back of his lenses. Stover addressed himself to Miss Blake.

  "I told the boys what you said, miss, and we four has come as a delegation to find out if it goes."

  "Mr. Speed and I were just talking about it when you came," said Helen. "I'm sure he will consent if you add your entreaties to mine."

  "It would sure be a favor," said the cow-man, at which the others drew nearer, as if hanging on Speed's answer. Even Cloudy turned his black eyes upon the young man.

  The object of their co-operate gaze shifted his feet uncomfortably and felt minded to flee, but the situation would not permit of it. Besides, the affair interested him. His mind was working rapidly, albeit his words were hesitating.

  "I—I'm afraid I'm not in shape to run," he ventured. But Stover would have none of this modesty, admirable as it might appear.

  "Oh, I talked with your trainer just now. I told him you was tipped off to us as a sprinter."

  "What did he say?" inquired Speed, with alarm.

  "He said 'no' at first, till I told him who let it out; then he laughed, and said he guessed you was a runner, but you didn't work at it regul
ar. I asked him how good you was, and he said none of the college teams would let you run. That's good enough for us, Mr. Speed."

  "But I'm not in condition," objected the youth, with a sigh of gratitude at Glass's irony.

  "I reckon he knows more about that than you do. We covered that point too, and Mr. Glass said you was never better than you are right now. Anyhow, you don't have to bust no records to beat this cook. He ain't so fast."

  "It would sure be a kind-hearted act if you'd do it for us," said the little man in his high, boyish voice. It was a shock to discover that he spoke in a dialect. "There's a heap of sentiment connected with this affair. You see, outside of being a prize that we won at considerable risk, there goes with this phonograph a set of records, among which we all have our special favorites. Have you ever heard Madam-o-sella Melby sing The Holy City?"

  "I didn't know she sang it," said Speed.

  "Take it from me, she did, and you've missed a heap."

  "You bet," Stover agreed, in a hushed, awed tone.

  "Well, you must have heard Missus Heleney Moray in The Baggage Coach Ahead?" queried the scholarly little man. At mention of his beloved classic, Carara, the Mexican, murmured, softly:

  "Ah! The Baggage Car—Te'adora Mora! God bless 'er!"

  "I must confess I've never had the pleasure," said Speed, whereupon the speaker regarded him pityingly, and Stover, jealous that so much of the conversation had escaped him, inquired:

  "Can it be that you never heard that monologue, Silas on Fifth

  Avenoo?"

  Again Speed shook his head.

  As if the very memory were hilariously funny, Still Bill's shoulders heaved, and stifled laughter caused his Adam's apple to race up and down his leathern throat. Swallowing his merriment at length, he recited, in a choking voice, as follows: "Silas goes up Fifth Avenoo and climbs into a bus. There is a girl settin' opposite. He says, 'The girl opened her valise, took out her purse, closed her valise, opened her purse, took out a dime, closed her purse, opened her valise, put in her purse, closed her valise, handed the dime to the conductor, got a nickle in change, opened her valise, took out her purse, closed her valise, opened her purse—'"