I hope I lose my thousand, but if there was any betting I'd stake ten to one against you." In the meantime, some of the range-riders had thrown a coat over the head of the stallion, and while he stood quivering with helpless rage they flung a saddle on and drew the cinches taut.
Anthony Woodbury was saying with a smile: "Just for the sake of the game, I'll take you on for a few hundred, Mr.Werther, if you wish, but I can't accept odds." Werther ran a finger under his collar apparently to facilitate breathing.

His eyes, roving wildly, wandered over the white, silent mass of faces, and his glance picked out and lingered for a moment on the big-shouldered figure of Drew, erect in his box.

At last his glance came back with an intent frown to Woodbury.

Something in the keen eyes of the lad raised a responsive flicker in his own.
"Well, I'll be damned! Just a game, eh?
Lad, no matter on what side of the Rockies you were born, I know your breed and I won't lay a penny against your money.

There's the hoss saddled and there's the floor you'll land on.