it had covered seventy-five yards the pinto was three lengths to the
good. Dave, flying toward the halfway post, heard his friend Hart's
triumphant "Yip yip yippy yip!" coming to him on the wind.

He leaned forward, patting his horse on the shoulder, murmuring words of
encouragement into its ear. But he knew, without turning round, that the
racer galloping at his heels was drawing closer. Its long shadow thrown
in front of it by the westering sun, reached to Dave's stirrups, crept to
Chiquito's head, moved farther toward the other shadow plunging wildly
eastward. Foot by foot the distance between the horses lessened to two
lengths, to one, to half a length. The ugly head of the racer came
abreast of the cowpuncher. With sickening certainty the range-rider knew
that his Chiquito was doing the best that was in it. Whiskey Bill was a
faster horse.

Simultaneously he became aware of two things. The bay was no longer
gaining. The halfway mark was just ahead. The cowpuncher knew exactly how
to make the turn with the least possible loss of speed and ground. Too
often, in headlong pursuit of a wild hill steer, he had whirled as on a
dollar, to leave him any doubt now. Scarce slackening speed, he swept the
pinto round the clump of mesquite and was off for home.

Dave was halfway back before he was sure that the thud of Whiskey Bill's
hoofs was almost at his heels. He called on the cowpony for a last spurt.
The plucky little horse answered the call, gathered itself for the home
stretch, for a moment held its advantage. Again Bob Hart's yell drifted
to Sanders.

Then he knew that the bay was running side by side with Chiquito, was
slowly creeping to the front. The two horses raced down the stretch