He shot ahead like a coursing greyhound, and Cindy's heart began to sing. This was how she had felt when she had dreamed of riding into Oklahoma. Sparkle was not a horse but a bird, and at long last Cindy knew what it was to fly. She flew past the foremost of the running men and caught up with the slowest wagons. She drew abreast of the first, a heavy wagon pulled by four little horses. His hair flying in the wind, a man stood on the seat with the reins in one hand and plying a whip with the other. He seemed in danger of falling off at any second. Nevertheless he leaned far forward, as though by simply pointing himself at Oklahoma he could make the horses run faster. But they were already doing their best and had no more speed to offer. Cindy passed a man whose horse had fallen. The horse, a nice-looking sorrel, was down in the hindquarters and up in the front. The man--and judging by his brightly checked suit and derby hat, he was a city man--was trying to make the horse get to his feet by pulling on the reins. But either the horse had been hurt by inexpert riding and couldn't get up, or he was stubborn and wouldn't. Cindy rode on, at last understanding why Pete had refused to rent his ponies and her father his mules, even for the fabulous sum of fifty dollars. Far too many of the people riding in this great Run knew nothing about handling horses. Cindy drew up on the next wagon. It was one she did not recognize, but the man driving it was a horseman. Instead of urging his beasts to their fullest speed, he was holding them in. Cindy applauded mentally. That man's horses might not be fresh, but they would be ready for one final spurt when many of the others were hopelessly exhausted. Cindy drew up on the next wagon. She was pleased to see that it belonged to the family who had been "out" in so many places and must make out in Oklahoma. She hoped they'd get a claim, but as she passed, one of the horses began to stumble. Cindy choked back a sob. She could not stop and offer help because, above all, she must take the gun to her father. Doing somewhat better than anyone except himself had thought he could, the man with the bicycle was ahead of all the wagons and pedaling furiously forward. Beside him, elbows flying like a bird's wings, and kicking both heels constantly into his mount's ribs, was the old man with the sorry-looking mule. Only the very fast were ahead of her now. Sparkle, fleet-footed and long-winded, had the additional advantage of carrying probably the lightest rider in the Run. Far from faltering, he had reserves of speed and strength. Cindy held him in. She might need those reserves. She began to worry. Where were her father and Pete Brent? The better to see, she rose in the stirups. She saw scattered horsemen when she arose, but not the two she wanted. Cindy looked back at the onrushing crowd and for a moment wished she could go back. She dared not. Her father must have his gun.