heads Baptiste stood alone, trying to hold down the off leader, thrown
into a frenzy of fear by the yelling of the crowd.

Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute stillness,
came the words, 'Are you ready?', then the pistol-shot and the great
race had begun. Above the roar of the crowd came the shrill cry of
Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of his hand, and swung
himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it shot past.

Like a flash the bronchos sprang to the front, two lengths before the
other teams; but, terrified by the yelling of the crowd, instead of
bending to the left bank up which the road wound, they wheeled to the
right and were almost across the river before Sandy could swing them
back into the course.

Baptiste's cries, a curious mixture of French and English, continued to
strike through all other sounds till they gained the top of the slope
to find the others almost a hundred yards in front, the citizens' team
leading, with the miners' following close. The moment the pintos caught
sight of the teams before them they set off at a terrific pace and
steadily devoured the intervening space. Nearer and nearer the turn
came, the eight horses in front, running straight and well within their
speed. After them flew the pintos, running savagely with ears set back,
leading well the big roans, thundering along and gaining at every bound.
And now the citizens' team had almost reached the Fort, running hard,
and drawing away from the bays. But Nixon knew what he was about, and
was simply steadying his team for the turn. The event proved his wisdom,
for in the turn the leading team left the track, lost a moment or two in
the deep snow, and before they could regain the road the bays had swept
superbly past, leaving their rivals to follow in the rear. On came the