Sunset brought them to the Salt Flats.  The foreman gave orders to throw off and make camp.

A course was chosen for the race.  From a selected point the horses were to run to a clump of mesquite, round it, and return to the starting-place.  Dug Doble was chosen both starter and judge.

Dave watched Whiskey Bill with the trained eyes of a horseman.  The animal was an ugly brute as to the head.  Its eyes were set too close, and the shape of the nose was deformed from the effects of the rattlesnake’s sting.  But in legs and body it had the fine lines of a racer.  The horse was built for speed.  The cowpuncher’s heart sank.  His bronco was fast, willing, and very intelligent, but the little range pony had not been designed to show its heels to a near-thoroughbred.

“Are you ready?” Doble asked of the two men in the saddles.

His brother said, “Let ’er go!” Sanders nodded.  The revolver barked.

Chiquito was off like a flash of light, found its stride instantly.  The training of a cowpony makes for alertness, for immediate response.  Before it had covered seventy-five yards the pinto was three lengths to the good.  Dave, flying toward the halfway post, heard his friend Hart’s triumphant “Yip yip yippy yip!” coming to him on the wind.

He leaned forward, patting his horse on the shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement into its ear.  But he knew, without turning round, that the racer galloping at his heels was drawing closer.  Its long shadow thrown in front of it by the westering sun, reached to Dave’s stirrups, crept to Chiquito’s head, moved farther toward the other shadow plunging wildly eastward.  Foot by foot the distance between the horses lessened to two lengths, to one, to half a length.  The ugly head of the racer came abreast of the cowpuncher.  With sickening certainty the range-rider knew that his Chiquito was doing the best that was in it.  Whiskey Bill was a faster horse.

Simultaneously he became aware of two things.  The bay was no longer gaining.  The halfway mark was just ahead.  The cowpuncher knew exactly how to make the turn with the least possible loss of speed and ground.  Too often, in headlong pursuit of a wild hill steer, he had whirled as on a dollar, to leave him any doubt now.  Scarce slackening speed, he swept the pinto round the clump of mesquite and was off for home.

Dave was halfway back before he was sure that the thud of Whiskey Bill’s hoofs was almost at his heels.  He called on the cowpony for a last spurt.  The plucky little horse answered the call, gathered itself for the home stretch, for a moment held its advantage.  Again Bob Hart’s yell drifted to Sanders.

Then he knew that the bay was running side by side with Chiquito, was slowly creeping to the front.  The two horses raced down the stretch together, Whiskey Bill half a length in the lead and gaining at every stride.  Daylight showed between them when they crossed the line.  Chiquito had been outrun by a speedier horse.