"That Thunderbolt horse, he is the devil," Sabota laughed evilly as the money was handed over to the gray-haired judge. "And Satan, he takes care of his own!"
"Well!" Parker drawled, "if you feel inclined to send any more money to hell I might help you—" pulling a wad of bills from his pocket and throwing the certificates on the soft-drink bar at which they were standing.
Sabota's eyes gleamed greedily.
"I think there's two thousand in this roll," Parker continued, "and I'm willing to bet it all that the Ramblin' Kid's filly not only goes under the wire first in the two-mile run, but that she'll be kicking dirt in old Thunderbolt's face—if he ain't too damned far behind—when she does it!"
The Greek covered the wager eagerly.
As Judge Ivory pocketed the money Dorsey and Flip Williams stepped into the pool-room. Sabota glanced up.
"These Quarter Circle KT hombres are getting bad," he laughed sneeringly to Dorsey; "they think th' Ramblin' Kid's got a colt that can beat Thunderbolt!"
"The Ramblin' Kid must have a hell of a fast horse!" Dorsey snarled contemptuously, "a hell of a fast horse!" he repeated, "when the Ramblin' Kid himself declines to risk a dollar of his own money on the running qualities of the critter!" referring to the conversation a few hours before in the entry judges' office.
As he finished speaking he turned and looked squarely into the cold gray eyes of Old Heck who, with Skinny, had entered the Amusement Parlor while Dorsey was talking and heard the Vermejo cattleman's sneering insinuation.