A furlong from the finish he caught the rearmost of the mares and cut around them, the dust spurting sidewise.  The crowd gasped, for as he passed the bays it was impossible to judge his speed accurately; and after the breath of astonishment the cheers broke in a wave.  There was a confusion of emotion in Marianne.  A victory for the chestnut would be a coup for her pocketbook when it came to buying the Coles horses, but it would be a distinct blow to her pride as a horsewoman.  Moreover, there was that in the stallion which roused instinctive aversion.  Hatred for Cordova sustained him, for there was no muscle in the lean shoulders or the starved quarters to drive him on at this terrific pace.

In the corner of her vision she saw old Corson, agape, pale with excitement, swiftly beating out the rhythm of Alcatraz’s swinging legs; and then she looked to Lady Mary.  Every stride carried the bay back to the relentless stallion.  Her head had not yet gone up; she was still stretched out in the true racing form; but there was a roll in her gallop.  Plainly Lady Mary was a very, very tired horse.

She shot in to the final furlong with whip and spur lifting her on, every stroke brought a quivering response; all that was in her strong heart was going into this race.  And still the chestnut gained.  At the sixteenth her flying tail was reached by his nose And still he ate up the distance.  Yet spent as the mare was, the chestnut was much farther gone.  If there was a roll in her weary gallop, there was a stagger in his gait; still he was literally flinging himself towards the finish.  No help from his rider certainly, but every rancher in the crowd was shouting hoarsely and swinging himself towards the finish as though that effort of will and body might, mysteriously, be transmitted to the struggling horse and give him new strength.

Fifty yards from the end his nose was at Lady Mary’s shoulder and Marianne saw the head of the mare jerk up.  She was through but the stallion was through also.  He had staggered in his stride, drunkenly.  She saw him shake his head, saw him fling forward again, and the snaky head crept once more to the neck of the mare, to her ears, and on and on.

Five hundred voices bellowed his name to lift him to the finish:  “Alcatraz!” Then they were over the line and the riders were pulling up.  It was not hard to stop Alcatraz.  He went by Marianne at a reeling trot, his legs shambling weakly and his head drooping, a weary rag of horseflesh with his ears still gloomily flattened to his neck.

But who had won?  The uproar was so terrific that Marianne could not distinguish the name of the victor as the judges called it, waving their arms to command silence.  Then she saw Colonel Dickinson walking with fallen head.  The fat man was sagging in his step.  His face had grown pale and pouchy in the moment.  And she knew that the ragged chestnut had indeed conquered.  Courage is the strength of the weak but in Alcatraz hatred had occupied that place.