Presently the other men with their horses and riders were ready. The three Indians mounted; the crowd was waved back out of the way; everyone grew expectant and interested. At the crack of a pistol the horses were off like a flash amid clouds of dust. Evidently they were not new at this kind of racing and were eager for the sport. As they sped around the track they were almost abreast, and as the mile was nearly run West’s horse was a length behind the other two. As they neared the wire where each horse was being held ready to receive its saddle and respective rider, each slackened his pace and now simultaneously the three riders slid from their horses, quickly unbuckled the saddles, flung them upon the waiting horses, and with quick and sure fingers girted them, remounted and were off! Swift Arrow, the Indian riding for West, had changed his saddle so quickly that his horse was ready to start when the others were. This second horse kept apace with the others and toward the end of the half mile was gaining slightly. One of the other horses suddenly bolted off the track, and by the time the rider had him under control he was at least a quarter behind. Again at the change Swift Arrow’s deft fingers had adjusted the saddle, remounted and was off before the second Indian had fairly gained his feet. On and on they rode, first one gaining, then the other ahead according to the fleetness of the horses. How the crowd cheered as the favorite horse came in ahead! How they shouted as Louie pounded his heels into the horse’s sides in vain! See, here he comes at last, a half lap behind the other two, with his shirt flopping in the wind and one of his leggings hanging down over the stirrup. As he passes the man who holds his horses the legging is caught and jerked free. Again the others have remounted and gone, as Louie comes steaming up, half falling as the other loosened legging dangles at his feet. His long braids have become untied, and now the black, straight hair with its single feather is standing straight out with the breeze. Nothing daunted, with his fleeing companions already nearly a mile ahead, he bends low over his horse and rides as only an Indian can. Seven miles are run! Swift Arrow still leading! The eighth begun! Look! What attracts West, as he runs hurriedly across the track? His keen eye caught a glimpse of the saddle as Swift Arrow sped past! See, now, it is surely loose! Will he be able to hold until the end of the mile? Here he comes dashing forward! Already he seems to be beginning to dismount! Look. The horse suddenly turns, and the loosened saddle with the rider are flung to the ground almost at West’s feet! The frightened horse plunges and is gone. Two men quickly draw the stunned Indian to one side and shouts of “West! West!” are heard coming from the excited crowd. “Oh! Will he be able to finish the race,” cried Bess, excitedly to James, who stood near Mauchacho.