Jackson had been training his horse for months in advance in “Kit” Taylor’s neighborhood, and the racer knew his master’s imperious will perfectly. He “smelt the battle afar off,” and perhaps at the same time “danger in the tainted air”; but when the test came, the determination to be first under the string thrilled every fiber and sinew in his lithe and wiry body. The betting was fast and furious, and the reckless readiness of the gamblers, following the example of the contestants, to risk all on their favorite steed, would have taken away the breath of even the “plunger” of today. Guns, furs, iron, clothing, cattle, horses, negroes, crops, lands and all the money procurable were staked on the result. No “boom” period in that section saw so much property change hands in so short a time. A week or ten days before the race, Jackson was overtaken by a serious disappointment. His jockey, a negro boy belonging to Taylor, was taken down with a violent fever. Jackson announced his determination to ride the race himself, and Love readily agreed to the proposition. When this arrangement became known, the throng became delirious with enthusiasm and delight. The judges, who had been selected after a good deal of finesse and some wrangling, were stationed half and half at each end of the semicircular track. Jackson appeared on his restless and impatient flyer, with a haughty air of confidence and self-possession, the rival steed prancing at his side, under the control of a born jockey, who well knew the responsibility resting upon him and how to act his part on the momentous occasion. They were started with a shout that shook the azure vault above and reverberated in answering echoes from the surrounding mountains. The horses were marvels of symmetry and beauty, and in fine condition for speed and endurance. At the word “Go!” they shot out on the smooth track as if they had been hurled from two monster mortars. On they sped, neck and neck. The jockey was the hazy outline of a boy printed on the air: Jackson rode as if he were part of his spectral horse. The yells of the onlookers packed around the crescent course would have drowned the blending screams of a hundred steam-whistles. All at once, the Love horse spurted ahead. The partisans of Jackson got their breath in gasps. The victor whizzed under the string like an arrow, leaving Old Hickory to make the goal at his leisure. If Jackson’s horse was a wind-splitter that left a blue line behind him, Love’s was the same as a belated streak of lightning chasing a hurricane that had outrun it. Just for a moment there was the deep, ominous hush that precedes the crash of the tempest; then a pandemonium of noise and tumult that might have been heard in the two neighboring states broke loose. It awoke the black bear from his siesta, and the frightened red deer “sprang from his heathery couch in haste” and sought the distant heights. The loud, long and deep