For a second there was no reply, and then their anxiety was
relieved by seeing Tom stand up.

"Any bones broken?" asked Mr. Wilder, who had reached the black and
was dismounting.

"No. I'm all right, thanks to the prairie grass," replied the
younger of the brothers. "Is Blackhawk hurt?"

"I don't think so. Ease up, Bill. I've got him by the bridle."

Quickly the elder of the Wilder boys rode forward, and as the
prostrate pony felt the rope loosen he bounded to his feet.

With skilled eye the ranchman looked him over and there was a world
of relief in his voice as he said:

"We got out of that scrape mighty luckily. There isn't a scratch
on Blackhawk, and if Tom's----"

"There's no scratch on me either," returned the boy. "But what
about the race, do I win or not?"

"Considering you flew from Blackhawk's back almost to the tree, I
reckon you do," declared Mr. Wilder.

And looking up, Tom noticed that he was, indeed, standing under the
branches of the tree that marked the goal.