By the time we reached the spot, the preparations were finished. A little, hard-headed, old Indian was appointed umpire, and the two riders were at their posts. They were both young men, dressed in hunting shirts and cloth leggings. Their horses were not of the class that might strictly be denominated racers. One was black, the other cream-coloured. The black one had fierce little eyes glittering like fire, beneath a long shaggy forelock, which reached nearly to his nose. The eyes of the other were water-coloured, and had a sneaking slyness about them—an air which seemed to insinuate that their owner “knew a thing or two.” Both horses were round-bodied, bull-necked, and the thick legs of both were garnished with fetlocks of matted hair, extending from the knee joint down to the hoof, and trailing on the ground as they walked. There was not much show of spirit about them. They appeared but little ambitious of distinguishing themselves in the coming contest; and if their own inclinations had been consulted, it is probable, would have declined it altogether. Not so their riders; they sat as eager as greyhounds in the leash. Their eyes were intently fixed upon the umpire, who seemed to take the matter with wonderful coolness. At last he gave the signal—there was a hard, quick thumping of heels, against the ribs of the horses—the next moment they had vanished from their posts. There was a great clattering over the hard course—their bounds were short but rapid. At last the legs grew invisible, and the bodies looked like two balls moving through the air. The riders whooped and screamed, and the band of lookers-on shouted as loud as either. The little cream-coloured pony was working wonderfully hard, but the black was gaining ground. There was a tree at some distance, which they were to pass round, and return to the starting place. They reached it, the black taking the lead by a length—his legs were invisible as he turned, but the cream-coloured pony pushed him hard. They now approached the goal. “Two to one on the black!” shouted one of the whites. “Lay it on, old boy, or you’re beaten!” halloed another. Both riders exerted themselves to the utmost. They flew over the ground like lightning. The black still kept the lead, but both horses seemed to be eaten up with fury at being driven at such a rate. They rushed snorting in—the crowd shouted, and opened a passage for them—they dashed through, running nearly a hundred yards beyond the mark before they could check their speed. The black pony had won, but he appeared too angry to enjoy his victory. I looked at the other. _There_ he stood—_there_ was that self-satisfied, water-coloured eye, which said, “I may have been beaten, but still I know a thing or two.”