on the sand.
Vegetation grew scant except for patches of cholla and mesquite, a
sand-cherry bush here and there, occasionally a clump of shining poison
ivy.

Sunset brought them to the Salt Flats. The foreman gave orders to throw
off and make camp.

A course was chosen for the race. From a selected point the horses
were to run to a clump of mesquite, round it, and return to the
starting-place. Dug Doble was chosen both starter and judge.

Dave watched Whiskey Bill with the trained eyes of a horseman. The animal
was an ugly brute as to the head. Its eyes were set too close, and the
shape of the nose was deformed from the effects of the rattlesnake's
sting. But in legs and body it had the fine lines of a racer. The horse
was built for speed. The cowpuncher's heart sank. His bronco was fast,
willing, and very intelligent, but the little range pony had not been
designed to show its heels to a near-thoroughbred.

"Are you ready?" Doble asked of the two men in the saddles.

His brother said, "Let 'er go!" Sanders nodded. The revolver barked.

Chiquito was off like a flash of light, found its stride instantly. The
training of a cowpony makes for alertness, for immediate response. Before
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