“I reckon I am,” grinned Ted, “but I’m broke.”
“You’ll have to pay your winnings to get your bones mended.”
“I’ll take a chance!”
King laughed. Most of the horses he recognized as having been ridden before. But he was secretly resolved if Ace drew a bad one, to exercise his parental authority.
The chums drew from the hat, Ace taking the last name. He started as he looked at his slip. “The white-faced bull,” read Ted over his shoulder.
“Gee! Don’t tell Dad!” breathed Ace. “What’s yours?”
“Spitfire!”
The older boy emitted a long-drawn whistle.
“All right, broncho boys,” megaphoned the starter.
The first entry, rearing and snorting, with two lassos about his neck, had finally been blind-folded and caparisoned.