The level, well-beaten, straight-away course stretched along between rows of tents, tepees and lodges out into the plain beyond. Indian races are not upon oval tracks and are not confined entirely to one dash over the course, but include a certain distance and back over the same ground, the finish being at the starting point. Other races are run where the contestant must lean from the pony's back and pick up a quirt or hat as the animal dashes past. But the time for the great race on which the bets are made has arrived, and the restless, anxious animals have to be guided to the starting place by their riders and arranged in line with heads opposite the direction in which the race is to be run. Bare-skinned warriors on bridleless, saddleless ponies, a small, finely-braided lariat attached to the horse's jaw, sit like graven images upon their favorite steeds. "Brown Dick," whose rider is his owner, steps along jauntily, champing in eager fashion the silver-ringed bit supported by a silver ornamented Mexican braided-leather bridle, the loose reins held almost listlessly by the man in blue shirt and buckskin trousers seated on an English racing saddle. A little moisture around the roots of the delicately pointed ears shows that "Brown Dick" has been exercised. The muscles of the forelegs play beneath the skin as step by step he approaches the line; the veins in his arched neck stand out like small ropes, and the dilated nostrils reveal the pink membranes as each deep breath is inhaled. Charley has maneuvered for position, timing his arrival to such a nicety that the last slow step of his well-trained racer falls exactly as the pistol belches forth the signal to start. Simultaneously he utters a shrill "Go" and presses his knees violently into his horse's sides, leaning far out in the saddle and throwing his weight against the reins on the faithful horse's neck, who rears aloft, pivots in beautiful fashion and leaps in one bound clear of the line of frantic ponies, and amid the warwhoops of Indians, the yells of the frenzied and the fear of defeat piercing his ears he dashes on to victory. The struggle is not long, and the spoils won from the vanquished nearly bankrupt the entire tribe until the next annuities replace their losses. There are no imprecations nor villainous mutterings. An Indian is a good loser and bears defeat in a philosophical, stoical manner. Immediately after the exciting races come the feasts given to the successful competitors, and the following day finds the erstwhile holiday-arrayed village desolate and uninteresting. Yamanatz, Jack and Chiquita began preparations for the trip to "Blazing-Eye-by-the-Big-Water," and soon followed the crowd of visitors making their way to the nearest railroad. The last one to bid Chiquita "adios" was Antelope. He had little to say, but averred he would continually seek the aid of all the Ute gods, big and little, to bring the heart of Chiquita to Antelope's tepee.