"He's foxy enough. But the Indians have entered a horse every year, and never won yet."
"But a chap can't lose all the time," Chetwood observed. "And then the Frenches are offering even money against the field. No end sporting of 'em, but risky. That little ex-jockey knows his business?"
"I think so. Perhaps you'd like to have a talk with him and see the horse. He's going out now, and we'll go with him, if you care to."
"Thanks," Chetwood acknowledged. "That's very decent of you, Mackay. I'd like it very much."
CHAPTER XI
A HOLD-UP
The road to the track, which was nearly a mile beyond the town, was lonely and dark. Most of the way it ran through a wooded flat, and the tree shadows overlay it with denser gloom. But at last they emerged from the trees upon the natural prairie which held track and fair grounds. Along one side was a row of sheds, and here and there a lantern gleamed. Toward one of these lights Dorgan led them.
Dave Rennie, reading beside a lantern, nodded silently and, introduced to Chetwood, regarded him with disfavor, as a remittance man, one of the balloon-pants brigade.
"Everything all right, Davy?" Dorgan asked.