When Connor wakened the next morning, after his first impression of blinding light, he closed his eyes and waited for the sense of unhappy doom¹ which usually comes to men of tense nerves and active life after sleep; but, with slow and pleasant wonder, he realized that the old numbness² of brain and fever of pulse was gone. Then he looked up and lazily watched the shadow of the vine at his window move across the ceiling, a dim-bordered shadow continually changing as the wind gathered the leaves in solid masses and shook them out again. He pored upon this for a time, and next he watched a spider spinning a web in the corner; she worked in a draft which repeatedly lifted her from her place before she had fastened her thread, and dropped her a foot or more into space. Connor sat up to admire the artisan's skill and courage. Compared to men and insects, the spider really worked over an abyss two hundred feet deep, suspended by a silken thread. Connor slipped out of bed and stood beneath the growing web while the main cross threads were being fastened. He had been there for some time when, turning away to rub the ache out of the back of his neck, he again met the contrast between the man of this morning and the man of other days.  
This time it was his image in the mirror, meeting him as he turned. That deep wrinkle in the middle of the forehead was half erased³. The lips were neither compressed nor loose and shaking, and the eye was calm—it rested him to meet that glance in the mirror.
 
A mood of idle content always brings one to the window: Connor looked out on the street. A horseman hopped⁴ past like a day shadow, the hoofbeats muffled⁵ by thick sand, and the wind, moving at an exactly equal pace, carried a mist of dust just behind the horse's tail. Otherwise there was neither life nor color in the street of weather-beaten, low buildings, and the eye of Connor went beyond the roofs and began to climb the mountains. Here was a bald bright cliff, there a drift of trees, and again a surface of raw clay from which the upper soil had recently slipped; but these were not stopping points—they were rather the steps which led the glance to a sky of pale and transparent⁶ blue, and Connor felt a great desire to have that sky over him in place of a ceiling.
 
He splashed through a hasty bath, dressed, and ran down the stairs, humming. Jack⁷ Townsend stood on a box in the corner of the room, probing at a spider web in the corner.
 
"Too late for breakfast?" asked Connor.
 
The fat shoulders of the proprietor⁸ quivered, but he did not turn.
 
"Too late," he snapped. "Breakfast over at nine. No favorites up here."
 
Connor waited for the wave of irritation⁹ to rise in him, but to his own surprise he found himself saying:
 
"All right; you can't throw a good horse off his feed by cutting out one meal."
 
Jack Townsend faced his guest, rubbing his many-folded chin.
 
"Don't take long for this mountain air to brace¹⁰ up a gent, does it?" he asked rather pointedly¹¹.
 
"I'll tell you what," said Connor. "It isn't the air so much; it's the people that do a fellow good."
 
"Well," admitted the proprietor modestly, "they may be something in that. Kind of heartier¹³ out here, ain't they? More than in the city, I guess. I'll tell you what," he added. "I'll go out and speak to the missus about a snack for you. It's late, but we like to be obligin'."
 
He climbed carefully down from the box and started away.
 
"That girl again," thought Connor, and snapped his fingers. His spirits continued to rise, if that were possible, during the breakfast of ham and eggs, and coffee of a taste so metallic¹⁴ that only a copious¹⁵ use of cream made it drinkable. Jack Townsend, recovering to the full his customary good nature, joined his guest in a huge piece of toast with a layer of ham on it—simply to keep a stranger from eating alone, he said—and while he ate he talked about the race. Connor had noticed that the lobby was almost empty.
 
"They're over lookin' at the hosses," said Townsend, "and gettin' their bets down."
 
Connor laid down knife and fork, and resumed them hastily, but thereafter his interest in his food was entirely¹⁶ perfunctory. From the corner of his eye a gleam kept steadily¹⁷ upon the face of Townsend, who continued:
 
"Speaking personal, Mr. Connor, I'd like to have you look over them hosses yourself."
 
Connor, on the verge¹⁸ of speech, checked himself with a quick effort.
 
"Because," continued Townsend, "if I had your advice I might get down a little stake on one of 'em. You see?"
 
Ben Connor paused with a morsel¹⁹ of ham halfway²⁰ toward his lips.
 
"Who told you I know anything about horses?" he asked.
 
"You told me yourself," grinned the proprietor, "and I'd like to figure how you knew the mare²¹ come from the Ballor Valley."
 
"From which?"
 
"From the Ballor Valley. You even named the irrigation and sand and all that. But you'd seen her brand before, I s'pose?"
 
"Hoofs²² like hers never came out of these mountains," smiled Ben Connor. "See the way she throws them and how flat they are."
 
"Well, that's true," nodded Jack Townsend. "It seems simple, now you say what it was, but it had me beat up to now. That is the way with most things. Take a fine hand with a rope. He daubs it on a cow so dead easy any fool thinks he can do the same. No, Mr. Connor, I'd still like to have you come out and take a look at them hosses. Besides"—he lowered his voice—"you might pick up a bit of loose change yourself. They's a plenty rolling round to-day."
 
Connor laughed, but there was excitement behind his mirth.
 
"The fact is, Townsend," he said, "I'm not interested in racing²³ now. I'm up here for the air."
 
"Sure—sure," said the hotel man. "I know all that. Well, if you're dead set it ain't hardly Christian²⁴ to lure²⁵ you into betting on a hoss race, I suppose."
 
He munched²⁶ at his sandwich in savage²⁷ silence, while Connor looked out the window and began to whistle.
 
"They race very often up here?" he asked carelessly.
 
"Once in a while."
 
"A pleasant sport," sighed Connor.
 
"Ain't it, now?" argued Townsend. "But these gents around here take it so serious that it don't last long."
 
"That so?"
 
"Yep. They bet every last dollar they can rake up, and about the second or third race in the year the money's all pooled in two or three pockets. Then the rest go gunnin' for trouble, and most generally find a plenty. Any six races that's got up around here is good for three shooting scrapes, and each shooting's equal to one corpse²⁸ and half a dozen put away for repairs." He touched his forehead, marked with a white line. "I used to be considerable," he said.
 
"H-m," murmured Connor, grown absentminded again.
 
"Yes, sir," went on the other. "I've seen the boys come in from the mines with enough dust to choke a mule²⁹, and slap it all down on the hoss. I've seen twenty thousand cold bucks³⁰ lost and won on a dinky little pinto that wasn't worth twenty dollars hardly. That's how crazy they get."
 
Connor wiped his forehead.
 
"Where do they race?" he asked.
 
"Right down Washington Avenue. That is the main street, y'see. Gives 'em about half a mile of runnin'."
 
A cigarette appeared with magic speed between the fingers of Connor, and he began to smoke, with deep inhalations, expelling his breath so strongly that the mist shot almost to the ceiling before it flattened³¹ into a leisurely³² spreading cloud. Townsend, fascinated, seemed to have forgotten all about the horse race, but there was in Connor a suggestion of new interest, a certain businesslike coldness.
 
"Suppose we step over and give the ponies³³ a glance?" he queried³⁴.
 
"That's the talk!" exclaimed Townsend. "And I'll take any tip you have!"
 
This made Connor look at his host narrowly, but, dismissing a suspicion from his mind, he shrugged³⁵ his shoulders, and they went out together.
 
The conclave³⁶ of riders and the betting public had gathered at the farther end of the street, and it included the majority of Lukin. Only the center of the street was left religiously clear, and in this space half a dozen men led horses up and down with ostentatious indifference³⁷, stopping often to look after cinches which they had already tested many times. As Connor came up he saw a group of boys place their wagers³⁸ with a stakeholder—knives, watches, nickels and dimes³⁹. That was a fair token of the spirit of the crowd. Wherever Connor looked he saw hands raised, brandishing⁴⁰ greenbacks, and for every raised hand there were half a dozen clamorous⁴¹ voices.
 
"Quite a bit of sporting blood in Lukin, eh?" suggested Townsend.
 
"Sure," sighed Connor. He looked at the brandished⁴² money. "A field of wheat," he murmured, "waiting for the reaper⁴³. That's me."
 
He turned to see his companion pull out a fat wallet.
 
"Which one?" gasped⁴⁴ Townsend. "We ain't got hardly any time."
 
Connor observed him with a smile that tucked up the corners of his mouth.
 
"Wait a while, friend. Plenty of time to get stung where the ponies are concerned. We'll look them over."
 
Townsend began to chatter⁴⁵ in his ear: "It's between Charlie Haig's roan and Cliff Jones's Lightning—You see that bay? Man, he can surely get across the ground. But the roan ain't so bad. Oh, no!"
 
"Sure they are."
 
The gambler frowned. "I was about to say that there was only one horse in the race, but—" He shook his head despairingly as he looked over the riders. He was hunting automatically for the fleshless face and angular body of a jockey; among them all Charlie Haig came the closest to this light ideal. He was a sun-dried fellow, but even Charlie must have weighed well over a hundred and forty pounds; the others made no pretensions⁴⁶ toward small poundage, and Cliff Jones must have scaled two hundred.
 
"Which was the one hoss in your eyes?" asked the hotel man eagerly.
 
"The gray. But with that weight up the little fellow will be anchored."
 
He pointed¹² to a gray gelding which nosed confidently at the back hip⁴⁷ pockets of his master.
 
"Less than fifteen hands," continued Connor, "and a hundred and eighty pounds to break his back. It isn't a race; it's murder to enter a horse handicapped like that."
 
"The gray?" repeated Jack Townsend, and he glanced from the corner of his eyes at his companion, as though he suspected mockery. "I never seen the gray before," he went on. "Looks sort of underfed, eh?"
 
Connor apparently⁴⁸ did not hear. He had raised his head and his nostrils⁴⁹ trembled, so that Townsend did not know whether the queer fellow was about to break into laughter or a trade.
 
"Yet," muttered Connor, "he might carry it. God, what a horse!"
 
He still looked at the gelding, and Townsend rubbed his eyes and stared to make sure that he had not overlooked some possibilities in the gelding. But he saw again only a lean-ribbed pony⁵⁰ with a long neck and a high croup. The horse wheeled, stepping as clumsily as a gangling⁵¹ yearling. Townsend's amazement⁵² changed to suspicion and then to indifference.
 
"Well," he said, smiling covertly⁵³, "are you going to bet on that?"
 
Connor made no answer. He stepped up to the owner of the gray, a swarthy man of Indian blood. His half sleepy, half sullen⁵⁴ expression cleared when Connor shook hands and introduced himself as a lover of fast horse-flesh.
 
He even congratulated the Indian on owning so fine a specimen⁵⁵, at which apparently subtle mockery Townsend, in the rear, set his teeth to keep from smiling; and the big Indian also frowned, to see if there were any hidden insult. But Connor had stepped back and was looking at the forelegs of the gelding.
 
"There's bone for you," he said exultantly⁵⁶. "More than eight inches, eh—that Cannon⁵⁷?"
 
"Huh," grunted⁵⁸ the owner, "I dunno."
 
But his last shred⁵⁹ of suspicion disappeared as Connor, working his fingers along the shoulder muscles of the animal, smiled with pleasure and admiration⁶⁰.
 
"My name's Bert Sims," said the Indian, "and I'm glad to know you. Most of the boys in Lukin think my hoss ain't got a chance in this race."
 
"I think they're right," answered Connor without hesitation⁶¹.
 
The eyes of the Indian flashed.
 
"I think you're putting fifty pounds too much weight on him," explained Connor.
 
"Yeh?"
 
"Can't another man ride your horse?"
 
"Anybody can ride him."
 
"Then let that fellow yonder—that youngster—have the mount. I'll back the gray to the bottom of my pocket if you do."
 
"I wouldn't feel hardly natural seeing another man on him," said the Indian. "If he's rode I'll do the riding. I've done it for fifteen years."
 
"What?"
 
"Fifteen years."
 
"Is that horse fifteen years old?" asked Connor, prepared to smile.
 
"He is eighteen," answered Bert Sims quietly.
 
The gambler cast a quick glance at Sims and a longer one at the gray. He parted the lips of the horse, and then cursed softly.
 
"You're right," said Connor. "He is eighteen."
 
He was frowning in deadly earnestness now.
 
"Accident, I suppose?"
 
The Indian merely stared at him.
 
"Is the horse a strain of blood or an accident? What's his breed?"
 
"He's an Eden gray."
 
"Are there more like him?"
 
"The valley's full of 'em, they say," answered Bert Sims.
 
"What valley?" snapped the gambler.
 
"I ain't been in it. If I was I wouldn't talk."
 
"Why not?"
 
In reply Sims rolled the yellow-stained whites of his eyes slowly toward his interlocutor. He did not turn his head, but a smile gradually began on his lips and spread to a sinister⁶² hint at mirth. It put a grim end to the conversation, and Connor turned reluctantly to Townsend. The latter was clamoring.
 
"They're getting ready for the start. Are you betting on that runt of a gray?"