He turned to see in full progress the race he had interdicted. Along the sandy slope Jepson’s little mare led five others, bounding under whip and spur, her head stretched out long and straight, her tail and mane flying, her body close to the ground, the dust rising in clouds beneath her hoofs. It was a rash thing to do, and Eli Strobe, one of the most reasonable of men, would perchance never have risked it save for the applause that greeted her; one quavering voice arose, then the rotund swelling of cheers. He could not endure to see the race run and applauded in open defiance of the law. He rushed out to meet the animal, and springing at her neck he caught the bridle, throwing his full weight upon it. The mare, frightened, reared, despite the heavy burden at her head. She pawed the air with her forefeet. Then, as she broke loose, the man fell with a terrible wrench, and away she went, with a cloud of dust skirrying after her like a witches’ dance. Jepson reined up on the opposite rise, for he reached it the next moment; the other riders had not followed. He saw their horses shy away, one by one, from the prostrate figure that seemed a lifeless heap in the road. Did it stir? Or did the bystanders, rushing to it, move it in some way, seeking to aid? A bloody face was upturned; the crowd interposed, and he saw no more. At one side of the road, unheeding the tragedy, stood the man who doubted his horse’s sight, still waving his hat up and down before the creature’s eyes, to discover if he would flinch. VII.