delight. She had forgotten her hope that the mares might not win. All
she desired now was that blood might tell and her judgment be
vindicated.

"They won't last," Corson was growling, his voice feeble in the roar of
the excited crowd. "They can't last that pace. They'll come back after a
while and the ponies will walk away to the finish."

"Have you noticed," broke in Mrs. Corson, "that the poor old faded
chestnut seems to be keeping up fairly well?"

For as the bay mares cut around into the lead, Alcatraz was seen at the
heels of the range horses, running easily. It seemed, with a great
elastic stride.

"But--but--it's not the same horse!" Marianne gasped.

To be sure, Alcatraz in motion was transformed, the hollows among his
ribs forgotten, and the broken spirit replaced by power, the electric
power of the racer.

"It looks very much to me as if the Mexican is pulling that horse, too,"
said Marianne. For Cordova rode with legs braced, keeping a tight pull
that bent the head of Alcatraz down. He might have served for a statue
of fear. "And notice that he makes no effort to break around the range
horses or through them. What's the matter with him?"

At seven furlongs the mares were in a group of themselves, lengths in
front and drawing away; the heads of the cowponies were going up, sure
sign that they were spent, and even Corson was gloomily silent. He was