As they approached the track from the mountain road, hoarse cries and yells could be heard. Excitement ran high. A few thoroughbreds had been entered for the race, but the greater number of entries were for horse-flesh that could boast neither registered sires nor grandsires. They were just "horses." The last race began just as the Clayton party turned and looked down on the wriggling, shoving, cursing crowd below. It is doubtful if Esther Bright had ever heard such language, in all her life, as she heard that day. She shuddered, and turning to her escort, asked why he had brought her there. "Just for you to see what animals human beings are, and how great is their need of refining, uplifting influences." "Is John Harding here?" she asked, uneasily. "We are all here," he answered, smiling, "including Jack. You need never worry about him again. You found him a sinner, and--" "And he has become a saint?" she supplemented. "Not exactly a saint," he answered, "but you have brought about a complete transformation in the man's life and character. Jack could never return to what he was, be sure of that!" "Kelwin! Kelwin's ahead!" shouted a hoarse voice, above the noise of the crowd. "Blank ye!" retorted another, "Bill Hines is ahead! I seen 'em turn fust!" "Ye lie!" continued the first. Away to the right, speeding around a curve in the race course, four horses were straining every muscle. Occasionally a cow-puncher would lift his quirt, and make it hum through the air, or lash the poor beast, already straining to its utmost speed. For a few moments, the racers were concealed from view by a mass of rocks. When they emerged again, they were greeted by yells from bystanders. A cowlass, mounted on a spirited animal, was in the lead. She swore almost constantly at her horse, occasionally cutting him with her quirt. Lord Kelwin, now somewhat sobered, made a close second; and Bill Hines and Bill Weeks were neck and neck behind the Irishman. The crowd cheered and cheered. The girl leading was as fine a specimen of the human animal as the horse she rode was of the horse kind. She sat her horse superbly. Finally, Lord Kelwin gained upon her, and the horses were neck and neck. The girl again whirled her quirt around till it cut the air with a hissing sound, and spoke to her horse. It was enough. The betting grew louder. The stakes grew heavier. "I know Kelwin'll win yet." "No, he won't. Kate Brown'll win. She's a devil to ride, that girl is!" Again the Irishman gained upon her. Again she sent her quirt singing through the air, and her horse obeyed as though horse and rider were one. He sped faster and faster, passed Lord Kelwin, then the starting point, and the race was won. "Hurrah for Kate Brown and Lightning!" shouted hoarse voices; and cowboys and cowlasses and everyone else yelled and shouted, and shouted and yelled. It seemed as though pandemonium had been let loose.