from one bush to the next. Only
Chickamauga stood between the past and now--and Sheldon Barrett would
never again range ahead, in play or earnest.

The scout came out on a small rise where the rails of the fence were
cloaked on his side by brush. Drew lay flat, his chin propped upon his
crooked arm to look down the gradual incline of the pasture to the
training paddock. Beyond that stood the big house, its native brick
settling back slowly into the same earth from which it had been molded
in 1795.

In the pasture were the brood mares, five of them, each with an
attendant foal, all long legs and broom tail, still young enough to be
bewildered by so large and new a world. In the paddock.... Drew's head
raised an inch or so, and he pressed forward until his hat was pushed
back by the rail. The two-year-old being schooled in the paddock was
enough to excite any horseman.

Red Springs' stock right enough, of the Gray Eagle-Ariel breed, which
was Alexander Mattock's pride. Born almost black, this colt had shed his
baby fur two seasons ago for a dark iron-gray hide which would grow
lighter with the years. He had Eclipse's heritage, but he was more than
a racing machine. He was--Drew's forehead rasped against the weathered
wood of the rail--he was the kind of horse a man could dream about all
his days and perhaps find once in a lifetime, if he were lucky! Give
that colt three or four more years and there wouldn't be any horse that
could touch him. Not in Kentucky, or anywhere else!

He was circling on a leading strap now, throwing his feet in a steady,
rhythmic pattern around the hub of a Negro groom who was holding the
strap and admiring the action. Mounted on another gray--a mare with a
dainty, high-held head--was a woman, her figure trim in a habit almost
the same shade of green as the fields.

Drew pulled back. Then he smiled wryly at his instinctive retreat. His
aunt, Marianna Forbes, had abilities to be respected, but he very much
doubted if she could either sense his presence or see through the leafy
wall of his present spy hole. Yet caution dictated that he get about his
real business and inspect the fields where the horses he sought should
be grazing.

He halted several times during his perimeter march to survey the
countryside. And the bits of activity he spied upon began to puzzle him.
Aunt Marianna's supervision of the colt's schooling had been the
beginning. And he had seen her later, riding out with Rafe,