ok! Look! Oh, my God! Look!"

It was a woman's voice, a hysterical little woman from Reno, crying
out, terror-stricken. Her arm had shot out; her finger was pointing
toward the chasm of the river.

Then the shout that swept up about the Bar L-M was no longer faint.
The voices of women were drowned in the deep roar of men's shouts.
Wanda, her hands convulsively going to her breast, her face as white as
death, moved her lips, making no sound. But her soul spoke and prayed,
prayed to God not to let her mad lover do this mad thing. What was a
race, what was defeat!

Wayne Shandon, riding as straight as Hume now, his hair flashing its
red at them, his face strangely white,--some one cried that he was
afraid,--had come to the short cut. His eyes leaving the way in front
of him for a swift second saw the form of a girl standing out from the
crowd and failed to see the crowd that was watching him, for the
instant forgetful of Sledge Hume riding on his spurs, sweeping on
across the bridge that rocked under him. Then Shandon's eyes came back
to the black gulf where a white snowshoe rabbit had found death, which
a white maiden had leaped for his sake.

"We can do it, Little Saxon," he said gently. "We can do it for Wanda,
can't we? She'd hate to see us beaten by Hume. For Wanda, Little
Saxon. Now!"

The roar of the water smote upon Little Saxon's ears, the deep chasm
seemed a live and evil thing snapping at him. But he rushed on toward
it, he felt his master's hand, he heard his master talking to him, and
he had learned to love and trust his master. He swept on, down the
slope, gathering speed at each great bounding leap, racing as few have
seen a horse run, sensing the end of the race, sniffing victory with
quivering flaring nostrils. He felt the sudden slackening of his reins
as Shandon whispered, "Now!"; he knew that his master had put his life
into his horse's keeping; knew that he was loved and trusted in this
final moment even as he gave his own love and trust; and gathering the
great, iron muscles of his great iron body, he leaped.

He leaped, flinging his body recklessly. Upon his back Wayne Shandon,
sitting very still and tense and erect, his eyes upon the form of a
girl, his life in Little Saxon's keeping, had essayed the thing that no
one had expected even Red Reckless to do. The white froth of the water
flashed under them, the jagged rocks menaced, the boom of the river
deafened them. As he had