“His other two horses cannot stand it to run alternately now, surely,” replied her brother, “and already both the others are ahead! See, here comes Nedreau’s horse on the finish of the eighth, and West has still the last half of the eighth to go. He might as well give up.” West had assured himself that Swift Arrow was not seriously injured, and then lifting his sombrero to the calling crowd, snatched the saddle from the ground, threw it upon the resisting horse, fastened it, leaped upon the horse and was off! His head fairly touched the horse’s neck as he bent over, and in a steady voice urged the animal into even greater speed! Nedreau’s rider was already mounted and off as West came up the half-mile with Louie not far behind. He re-saddled to begin the ninth mile, but the tired, restive horse did not gain a foot over the others. Bess could not sit still in her saddle. “That is not fair,” she cried, “for they have three horses and Henry only two!” She saw with trepidation that his horse was falling far behind, and knew that he could not go much farther. Before any of her companions was aware of her purpose, Bess gave Mauchacho a quick cut with the quirt and flew across the intervening space to the man holding West’s horse ready for the remount. Bess sprang to the ground, unfastened and jerked off the saddle and thrust the reins into the man’s hands just as West came up. He had seen the girl as he neared the wire, and quickly divined her purpose. She sprang back out of the way and cried, “Take Mauchacho, take my Bird! Win the race for me!” At first the crowd could not see what was going on, and when the girl’s purpose dawned upon them they cheered and shouted wildly. Cries of “Ride,” “Go win,” “Mount the Bird,” came to the breed’s ears, and he threw his saddle upon the anxious, eager animal and was off. See how easily he starts; he even leans over to pat the horse’s neck; he does not seem to care nor to notice that Nedreau’s Indian is almost a half ahead! Now he is bending low over the saddle till man and horse seem one; neither hear the cries and shouts as they begin the last half of the race. On Mauchacho speeds—swiftly, steadily; nearer, nearer, nearer the other horse! Almost to the other’s tail! A leap and they are even! A stretch, and his nose is ahead! One supreme effort and daylight is between the two horses, just as they pass under the wire amid frantic cries, tossing hats and waving handkerchiefs. In a moment the cheers were changed to laughter as poor Louie came trotting under the wire, dressed only in his feather, so strenuous had been his exertions. Bess stood alone near the track, her hands clasped together. Not even a cry escaped her lips as she saw, not West, but Mauchacho win the race. As soon as West could slow the horse and bring him back before the judges, he heard the starter announce that “West had won the race.” West sprang to the ground, gave the reins to a man standing near, and entered the judges’ stand.