"Yonder comes the Woodbine bunch, I'll bet a dollar, and they're sure enough a-hittin' it up, too. Reckon that young one of the old Admiral's is a-settin' the pace, too. She's a clipper, all right," commented a man seated upon a tilted-back chair, his hat pushed far back upon his shock head. He was guiltless of coat, and his jean trousers were hitched high about his waist by a pair of wool suspenders. Hardly had he ceased speaking when three horses came pounding into view, the leader ridden by a girl about fifteen years of age. The animal was a little mouse-colored beastie with white markings and eyes which gave a pretty strong hint of a good bit of broncho disposition to which the markings also pointed. He was lithe and agile as a cat and moved with something of the sinuous gliding of that animal, rather than the bounding motions of his eastern-bred mates. The two horses running neck and neck behind him were evidently blooded animals, and all three were a-lather from the pace set by their leader, all mud-bespattered to the point of being wholly disreputable, for a shower the previous night had left many a wide puddle in the road. The girl leading rode as only a southern girl, accustomed to a saddle all her life, can ride. The saddle was of the Mexican type, but the headstall was the lightest possible, with a simple snaffle bit, even that seeming almost superfluous for she guided her mount more by the motions of her body than the bridle. She held the reins at arm's length in her left hand, while with her right she waved above her head a soft felt hat, her banner of defiance and derision of her pursuers. Swaying ever so slightly in her saddle, she brought her wiry little mount up to the platform, and slid from his back as snow slides from a hillside. The reins were tossed over his head and the race was ended. Running across the porch she nodded or bowed comprehensively to all seated or standing upon it--the greeting accompanied by a sunny, happy smile which revealed faultlessly pretty teeth. As she disappeared within the store her friends came rushing up to the platform, shouting after her as they drew up their horses: "Here, come back! Hold on! That's no fair, even if you did beat. _We're_ going to decide the kind of candy. You'll do us out of our last cent if we let you get it." "Of course! Why not?" was called back, banteringly. "Do you think I'm going to run Apache off his legs, risk breaking my neck and then not have the say-so in the end? I reckon not. It's just _got_ to be chocolates _this_ time. Cinnamon suckers are all right enough for a little race, but this was a two-mile go-it-for-all-you're-worth one, and besides, you'd better be nice to me, while you have the chance, because you won't have me with you very much longer." "Ah, cut that out. We know it well enough. You needn't rub it in," was the chorus of answers.