"I believe him," whispered one man to a neighbour, "because I've got
an idea that hoss is Red Peter himself!"

His companion stared at him agape.

"Red Pete!" he said. "Why, pal, that's the hoss that Silent--"

"Maybe it is an' maybe it ain't. But why should we ask too many
questions?"

"Let the marshals tend to him. He ain't ever troubled this part of the
range."

"Anyway, I'm goin' to remember his face. If it's really Jim Silent, I
got something that's worth tellin' to my kids when they grow up."

They both turned and looked at the tall man with an uncomfortable awe.
The rest of the crowd swarmed into the road to watch the race.

The black stallion was handicapped many yards at the start before Dan
could swing him around after the roan darted past with poor Morgan in
ludicrous pursuit. Moreover, the roan had the inestimable advantage
of an empty saddle. Yet Satan leaned to his work with a stout heart.
There was no rock and pitch to his gait, no jerk and labour to his
strides. Those smooth shoulders were corded now with a thousand lines
where the steel muscles whipped to and fro. His neck stretched out
a little--his ears laid back along the neck--his whole body settled
gradually and continually down as his stride lengthened. Whistling Dan
was leaning forward so that his body would break less wind. He laughed
low and soft as the air whirred into his face, and now and then he