“Th’ Ramblin’ Kid’s drunk,” Skinny said dully.  “He showed up—­yonder he is—­” as the beautiful copper-tinted, chestnut filly appeared behind the other horses entered for the two-mile sweepstakes.

“Drunk?” Old Heck cried incredulously.  “Are you sure?”

“Watch him!” Chuck said miserably.

The starter was standing with arm outstretched and flag ready to fall.  The filly came down the track jumping nervously from side to side in short springing leaps.  The starter paused, watch in hand.  A shout of admiration and wonder went up from the crowd as the splendid creature dancing down the track was recognized.  The next instant it was succeeded by a cry of horror that rolled in a great wave from a thousand throats.

“Th’ Ramblin’ Kid is drunk!  He’s drunk—­the mare will kill him!” as they saw the slim rider weaving limply in the saddle, his head dropped forward as if he were utterly helpless.

“Rule that horse off the track!” Dorsey, who was standing with Mike Sabota, in a box-seat just below the judges’ stand, shouted as he saw the Ramblin’ Kid, even in his half-conscious condition, reining the Gold Dust maverick with consummate skill into position, “her rider’s drunk!”

The Ramblin’ Kid heard the voice and—­by some miracle of the mind—­recognized it, although his eyes, set and glassy, could not see the speaker.

He turned his head in the direction from which the cry came and answered, slowly measuring each word: 

“Go—­go—­t’ hell—­you—­you—­coyote!”

The next instant the starter dropped the flag.  As it went down the filly crouched and reared straight into the air.

That one second gave the other horses the start.

Then the outlaw mare leaped forward directly behind Thunderbolt, running against the inside rail.  Say-So, the Pecos horse, jammed close to the side of the black stallion; Snow Johnson, rider of Prince John, pushed the big sorrel ahead with his nose at the roan’s tail; Dash-Away hugged against the heels of Prince John.  The Gold Dust maverick was “pocketed!”

A breathless hush fell over the crowd in the grandstand after the first mighty roar: 

“They’re off!”

Black devils of torture clutched the throat, the mind, the body of the Ramblin’ Kid.  Streams of fire seemed to be flowing through his veins.  He couldn’t see—­he was blind.  “What th’—­what th’—­hell!” he muttered over and over.  He was vaguely conscious of the thunder of hoofs around him—­under him.  Dimly, black shadows were rushing along at his side.  He fought with all his will to master his faculties.  Where was he?  What was it?  Was it a—­a—­stampede?  What? Oh, yes, th’ race—­th’—­th’—­ sweepstakes—­that—­that was it—­Over and over the fleeting flashes of consciousness kept throwing this one supreme idea on the mirror of his mind!

Not a word was spoken by any of the party at the Clagstone “Six” as the five fastest horses ever on the Eagle Butte track swept past the car toward the first quarter-turn of the course.