gs and his faith in the
"Lamblin' Kid."

A blanket might have covered the five horses as they swung around the
first mile.

The speed-mad animals roared down the homestretch, finishing the first
half of the race in the almost identical position each had taken in the
getaway.

The Ramblin' Kid rode the mile more as an automaton than as a living,
conscious human being. He had no memory of time, place, events--save for
the instants of rationality he forced his will to bring.

Gradually, though, his mind was clearing.

But which was it--the first half?--the last half? How long had they been
running? How many times had they gone around the track? He could not
remember!

Down the straight stretch the racers came in a mighty whirlwind of
speed.

"Thunderbolt is taking it!"

"The Y-Bar horse leads!"

"Th' black's got 'em!" roared from the throats of the crowd in the
grandstand and the mass of humanity crushing the railing along the
track.

Dorsey and Sabota leaped to the edge of the box as the horses thundered
past the judges' stand. The voice of the owner of Thunderbolt shrieked
out in a hoarse bellow:

"Hold him to it, Flip! Keep your lead--you've got the filly!"

The Ramblin' Kid heard again--or thought he heard again--the voice of
the Vermejo cattleman. He caught, as an echo, a note of triumph in it.
It was like a tonic to his drug-numbed faculties.

Suddenly he saw clearly. He had just a glimpse of Sabota standing by the
side of Dorsey. He understood. In a flash it all came to him. The first
half of the great sweepstakes race was behind them! Once more they were
to circle the track. The glistening black rump of Thunderbolt rose and
fell just ahead of the Gold Dust maverick's nose--at her side, crowding
her against the rail, was another horse. Which one? It didn't matter!
Back of it was another. He was "_pocketed_!" Hell, no wonder Thunderbolt
was ahead of the outlaw mare!

Half-way around the quarter-turn he pulled the filly down.

She slackened ever so little. Thunderbolt--the horse at her side--all of
them--shot ahead.

He was behind the bunch--clear of the field!

The crowd saw the filly dart to the right. It looked as though she would
go over the outside rail before the Ramblin' Kid swung her, in a great
arch, to the left clear of, but far behind, the other horses.

He was crazy! The Gold Dust maverick was getting the better of the
Ramblin' Kid. He had lost control of the wonderful mare!

So