Skinner's eyes gleamed. "I wish I had a couple of hundred to bet on myself."
"Broke, eh?"
"I'm as clean as a hound's tooth."
"I'm sorry y'all tossed off your wages, but"—Gallagher started suspiciously—"say! I reckon that won't affect your runnin' none, will it?"
Skinner admitted that he could run best when he had something to run for. "You might advance me a month's wages," he reflected.
"I'll do it. Hello! Say, ain't that one of them Flyin' Heart city visitors?" From the direction of the ranch buildings Berkeley Fresno was approaching.
"Good-afternoon! You are Mr. Gallagher, I believe? I rode over with our crowd just now." Fresno looked back. "Let's step around to the other side of the corral; I want to talk to you." He led the way; then inquired, "Is this your runner?"
"That's him. His name's Skinner, and that's a promisin' title to bet on." Gallagher slipped a roll of bank-notes from his pocket. "Unhook! I'll bet you."
"No, no! I think myself Mr. Skinner will win. That's why I'm here."
"Strip your hand, son. I don't savvy."