“Huh! Your dray-horses!” Long Bill Haskell was told.
“They can pull,” he bristled with hurt pride.
“They sure can,” he was assured. “But they can't make time for sour apples. They've got theirs cut out for them bringing up the heavy loads.”
As fast as a team was selected, its owner, with half a dozen aids, departed to harness up and get ready.
One team was rejected because it had come in tired that afternoon. One owner contributed his team, but apologetically exposed a bandaged ankle that prevented him from driving it. This team Smoke took, overriding the objection of the crowd that he was played out.
Long Bill Haskell pointed out that while Fat Olsen's team was a crackerjack, Fat Olsen himself was an elephant. Fat Olsen's two hundred and forty pounds of heartiness was indignant. Tears of anger came into his eyes, and his Scandinavian explosions could not be stopped until he was given a place in the heavy division, the craps-player jumping at the chance to take out Olsen's light team.
Five teams were accepted and were being harnessed and loaded, but only four drivers had satisfied the committee of the whole.
“There's Cultus George,” some one cried. “He's a trail-eater, and he's fresh and rested.”
All eyes turned upon the Indian, but his face was expressionless, and he said nothing.
“You'll take a team,” Smoke said to him.