pintos, swiftly nearing the Fort. Surely at that pace they cannot make
the turn. But Sandy knows his leaders. They have their eyes upon the
teams in front, and need no touch of rein. Without the slightest change
in speed the nimble-footed bronchos round the turn, hauling the big
roans after them, and fall in behind the citizens' team, which is
regaining steadily the ground lost in the turn.

And now the struggle is for the bridge over the ravine. The bays in
front, running with mouths wide open, are evidently doing their best;
behind them, and every moment nearing them, but at the limit of their
speed too, come the lighter and fleeter citizens' team; while opposite
their driver are the pintos, pulling hard, eager and fresh. Their temper
is too uncertain to send them to the front; they run well following, but
when leading cannot be trusted, and besides, a broncho hates a bridge;
so Sandy holds them where they are, waiting and hoping for his chance
after the bridge is crossed. Foot by foot the citizens' team creep
up upon the flank of the bays, with the pintos in turn hugging them
closely, till it seems as if the three, if none slackens, must strike
the bridge together; and this will mean destruction to one at least.
This danger Sandy perceives, but he dare not check his leaders.
Suddenly, within a few yards of the bridge, Baptiste throws himself upon
the lines, wrenches them out of Sandy's hands, and, with a quick swing,
faces the pintos down the steep side of the ravine, which is almost
sheer ice with a thin coat of snow. It is a daring course to take, for
the ravine, though not deep, is full of undergrowth, and is partially
closed up by a brush heap at the further end. But, with a yell, Baptiste
hurls his four horses down the slope, and into the undergrowth. 'Allons,
mes enfants! Courage! vite, vite!' cries their driver, and nobly do the
pintos respond. Regardless of bushes and brush heaps, they tear their
way through; but, as they emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches a root,