"I! Run a race!" exclaimed the young college man, aghast.
"Yes, I've promised that you would. You see, this isn't like a college event, and Culver isn't here yet."
"But he'll be here in a day or so." Speed felt as if a very large man were choking him; he decided his collar was too tight.
"Oh, I've talked it all over with Jean. She doesn't want Culver to run, anyhow."
"Why not?" inquired he, suspiciously.
"I don't know, I'm sure."
"If Miss Chapin doesn't want Culver to run, you surely wouldn't want me to."
"Not at all. If Mr. Covington knew the facts of the case, he would be only too happy to do it. And, you see, you know the facts."
Speed was about to shape a gracious but firm refusal of the proffered honor when Still Bill Stover appeared at the steps, doffed his faded Stetson, and bowed limply.
"Mornin', Miss Blake." To the rear Speed saw three other men—an Indian, tall, swart, and saturnine, who walked with a limp; a picturesque Mexican with a spangled hat and silver spurs, evidently the captor of Lawrence Glass on the evening previous; and an undersized little man with thick-rimmed spectacles and a heavy-hanging holster from which peeped a gun-butt. All were smiling pleasantly, and seemed a bit abashed.