ctators or urged into
his old time stride by Lefty's whispered appeals. Never again did Black
Eagle win a race.

His end, however, was not wholly inglorious. Much against his will the
cowboy who had so relentlessly followed Black Eagle half way across the
big territory of Arizona to lay him low with a rifle bullet, who had
spared his life at the last moment and who had ridden him to victory in
so many glorious races--this silent, square-jawed man had given him a
final caress and then, saying a husky good-by, had turned him over to
the owner of a great stud-farm and gone away with a thick roll of
bank-notes in his pocket and a guilty feeling in his breast.

Thus it happens that to-day throughout the Southwest there are many
black-pointed fleet-footed horses in whose veins runs the blood of a
noble horse. Some of them you will find in well-guarded paddocks, while
some still roam the prairies in wild bands which are the menace of
stockmen and the vexation of cowboys. As for their sire, he is no more.

This is the story of Black Eagle. Although some of the minor details
may be open to dispute, the main points you may hear recited by any
cattleman or horse-breeder west of Omaha. For Black Eagle really lived
and, as perhaps you will agree, lived not in vain.

BONFIRE

BROKEN FOR THE HOUSE OF JERRY

I

Down in Maine or up in Vermont, anywhere, in fact, save on a fancy
stud-farm, his color would have passed for sorrel. Being a high-bred
hackney, and the pick of the Sir Bardolph three-year-olds, he was put
down as a strawberry roan. Also he was the pride of Lochlynne.

"'Osses, women, and the weather, sir, ain't to be depended on; but,
barrin' haccidents, that 'ere Bonfire'll fetch us a ribbon if any does,
sir." Hawkins, the stud-groom, made this prophecy, not in haste or out
of hand, but as one who has a reputation to maintain and who speaks by
the card.

So the word was passed among the under-grooms and stable-boys that
Bonfire was the best of the Sir Bardolph get, and that he was going to
the Garden for the honor and profit of the farm.

Well, Bonfire had come to the Garden. He had been there two days. It was
within a few hours of the time when the hackneys were to take the
ring--and look at him! His eyes were dull, his head was down, his
nostrils wept, his legs trembled.

About his stall was gathered a little group of discouraged men and boys
who spoke in low tones and gazed gloomily through the murky a