owner, each bore a range saddle. To one accustomed to jockeys and
racing-pads, these full-grown riders and cumbrous trappings made the
cowponies seem small but they were finely formed, the pick of the range.
The days of mongrel breeds are long since over in the West. Smaller
heads, longer necks, more sloping shoulders, told of good blood crossed
on the range stock. Still, the base-stock showed clearly when the Coles
mares came onto the track with mincing steps, turning their proud heads
from side to side and every one coming hard on the bit. Coles had taken
no chances, and though he had been forced by the rules of the race to
put up the regulation range saddles he had found the lightest riders
possible. Their small figures brought out the legginess of the mares;
beside the compact range horses their gait was sprawling, but the wise
eye of Marianne saw the springing fetlocks kiss the dust and the long,
telltale muscles. She cried out softly in admiration and pleasure.

"You see the Coles mares?" she said. "There go the winners, Mr. Corson.
The ponies won't be in it after two furlongs."

Corson regarded her with a touch of irritation: "Now, don't you be too
sure, lady," he growled. "Lots of legs, I grant you. Too much for me.
Are they pure bred?"

"No," she answered, "there's enough cold blood to bring the price down.
But Coles is a wise business man. After they've won this race in a
bunch they'll look, every one, like daughters of Salvator. See that! Oh,
the beauties!"

One of the range horses was loosed for a fifty yard sprint and as he
shot by, the mares swayed out in pursuit. There was a marked difference
between the gaits. The range horse pounded heavily, his head bobbing;