"Borrowed it on my note."
"Oh, my sacred aunt!" Chetwood groaned. "Now listen to reason, old chap. Here's this money, just the same as if I'd found what you lost. Take it and——"
"Cut it out!" Angus interrupted. "That doesn't go."
"What an obstinate beggar you are!" Chetwood observed in disappointment. "Well, we'll say no more about it, then. Do you know, I fancy the Frenches have come rather a cropper to-day. Of course, I don't know anything of their finances, but they were doing some dashed heavy betting. I fancied Miss French was hard hit."
"So did I," Angus agreed.
"Stood up to it like a major," Chetwood nodded. "Like to see 'em game."
They found Dorgan and Rennie rubbing and sponging the big horse, fussing over him like two hens with one chick.
"Well, I win me a whole barrel of kale," Dorgan chuckled. "I'll bet them Frenches will find her a hard winter unless they're well fixed." He eyed the big chestnut contemplatively for a moment. "And yet, mind you, he ain't a racin' horse," he said, "and don't you never fool yourself that he is. He can run now, and he'll always run as long as an eight-day clock, because he's got the works. But he's a weight carrier, that's what he is. He's a white man's horse, and I hate like poison to see him go back to them Lo's. Why don't you buy him? He'd carry your weight, and you'd be ridin' a real horse."
"I haven't the money," Angus replied regretfully, for in his heart he had coveted Chief from the time he had first mounted him.
Later, when he had handed over his winnings to Paul Sam, Angus drove homeward with Jean. The day had been fine, but in the west a blue-black sky, tinged with copper, bore promise of storm. He sent the team along at a lively clip to reach home before it should break.