S. J.—You don’t suppose any tenderfoot, nor anybody else wants to be seen riding that old crow-bait around with a young lady? He can’t travel fast enough to work up a sweat.
B. J.—Can’t he? He has enough life and vinegar in him to throw any puncher on the “81” ranch, and don’t you forget it!
S. J.—Oh, pshaw! Jack, you talk like an old parrot my mother used to have down in San Antonio. He would repeat anything he heard and when he could not hear anything, he talked to himself.
B. J.—Money is what talks in Dodge City, and I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t ride that broncho two blocks without getting thrown.
S. J.—I’ll take that bet if you’ll make it three blocks. I don’t care about short rides. Why, I can ride all over the old goat and make cigarettes while doing it.
B. J.—Say, Slim; that old horse will throw you so high that the sparrows will build nests in your leggins before you come down.
S. J.—That will be all right! Where have you got that old mouse-colored critter, and where do you want the money put up?
B. J.—He’s around here in Cox’s corral, and we can put the money up in Kelly’s hands.
S. J.—All right! Let’s go and put the money up and get down to business.
I went along to see the fun, and especially to see how it would terminate. We entered a saloon finely furnished, with a mirror behind the bar that cost more than the average 160-acre farm in that country. We approached a big, two-fisted, well-dressed man who stood before the bar. Jack addressed him as Mr. Kelly, the man decided upon to hold the stakes. He explained his mission and asked him to hold the money pending the test of horsemanship. Mr. Kelly replied, “I’ll hould anything yese give me, but I would loike to know what will be done with the money in case the young man is kilt.” “Oh,” says Jack, “just treat the crowd and let the balance go to the house.” “All right,” said Kelly. Slim agreed to the proposal.