hat those two signals meant. For he had not told her, he had told no
one but Dart who had brought Little Saxon to him last night, and who,
later, had told the starters at the last moment. Shandon had realised
that there would be danger in this mad act of his and that had she
known beforehand Wanda would have been frightened.

Again, a mile further on, he tried to swing back into the cleared
course that would bring him the shortest way to the bridge. Again he
saw that MacKelvey had anticipated this, and was coming close to
killing his own horse to cut him off. And, his eyes growing black, the
fear of the end of the race came upon him. Had he done this wild thing
for nothing then? Was it but to be proof to the men who called him
fool that fool he was? He bent his head and loosened his reins.

He knew that, far ahead of him, Sledge Hume was riding the easier way,
that he was working down from the more broken rangeland, that he was
steadily nearing the bridge in the straightest line. He knew that
MacKelvey had a rifle strapped to his saddle and that long before now
the rifle would be in MacKelvey's hands. He knew that at the end of
the race Wanda Leland, her heart beating madly for him, was waiting.

"Can't you do it, Little Saxon?" he whispered. "For her sake, can't
you do it?"

Mile after mile slipped away behind him, the course was half run, and
he had not come down into the road which led to the Bar L-M. He knew
that he was losing at every jump the great hearted horse made under
him; he knew that it was not Little Saxon's fault as he had never known
until now what speed and strength lay in that wonderful body. Who's
fault, then? Hume was beating him, Hume would be at the finish
laughing, waiting for him to come in--

"You've got to do it, Little Saxon," he cried softly, his voice
pleading. "Why, we can't let Hume--"

He broke off suddenly, his eyes filling with light. He had seen the
way--and it was Wanda who had shown it to him.

"Steady, Saxon," he said, his own voice steady, confident, determined.
"We'll do it, little horse. Let Hume beat us to the Bridge; _we'll
take the short cut_!"

From the Bar L-M grounds a faint cry went up as scores of lifted field
glasses made out the figure of one man riding strongly toward the
bridge. It was Hume, Hume alone, riding as Hume rode, well and erect.
There was the hammer of Endymion's hoofs as they rattled against the
heavy planking, and then--

"Lo