Bob jogged down the road on this hazard of new fortune.
It chanced that Dud was still in town. Blister found him and half a dozen other punchers in front of the hotel.
“Betcha! Drinks for the crowd,” the justice heard him say.
“Go you,” Reeves answered, eyes dancing. “But no monkey business. It’s to be a straight-away race from the front of the hotel clear to the blacksmith shop.”
“To-day. Inside of ten minutes, you said,” Shorty of the Keystone reminded Hollister. “An’ this Sunday, you recollect.”
Dud’s gaze rested on a figure of a horseman moving slowly up the road toward them. The approaching rider was the Reverend Melanchthon T. Browning, late of Providence, Rhode Island. He had come to the frontier to teach it the error of its ways and bring a message of sweetness and light to the unwashed barbarians of the Rockies. He was not popular. This was due, perhaps, to an unfortunate manner. The pompous little man strutted and oozed condescension.
“W-what’s up?” asked Blister.
“Dud’s bettin’ he’ll get the sky pilot to race him from here to Monty’s place,” explained Reeves. “Stick around. He’ll want to borrow a coupla dollars from you to buy the drinks.”
It was Sunday afternoon. The missionary was returning from South Park, where he had been conducting a morning service. He was riding Tex Lindsay’s Blue Streak, borrowed for the occasion.
“What deviltry you up to now, Dud?” Blister inquired.