the mares stepped out with long, rocking gallop. They seemed to be going
with half the effort and less than half the speed, and yet, strangely,
they very nearly kept up with the sprinter until their riders took them
back to the eager, prancing walk. Marianne's eyes sparkled but the
little exhibition told a different story to old Corson. He snorted with
pleasure.

"Maybe you seen that, Miss Jordan? You seen Jud Hopkin's roan go by them
fancy Coles mares? Well, well, it done my heart good! This gent Coles
comes out of the East to teach us poor ignorant ranchers what right hoss
flesh should be. He's going to auction off them half dozen mares after
the race. Well, sir, I wouldn't give fifty dollars a head for 'em. Nor
neither will nobody else when they see them mares fade away in the home
stretch; nope, neither will nobody else."

In this reference to over-wise Easterners there was a direct thrust at
the girl, but she accepted it with a smile.

"Don't you think they'll last for the mile and a quarter, Mr. Corson?"

"Think? I don't think. I know! Picture hosses like them--well, they'd
ought to be left in books. They run a little. Inside a half mile they
bust down. Look how long they are!"

"But their backs are short," put in Marianne hastily.

"Backs short?" scoffed Corson, "Why, lady look for yourself!"

She choked back her answer. If the self-satisfied old fellow could not
see how far back the withers reached and how far forward the quarters,