In a word, Allesandro’s Indian blood was up.  If there was anything he loved, it was a horse-race for money, chalk, marbles or fun.  Therefore when a quick glance over his shoulder showed Panchito’s blazed face at Peep-sight’s rump, Allesandro clucked to his mount, gathered the reins a trifle tighter and dug his dirty bare heels into Peep-sight’s ribs, for he was riding bareback, as an Indian should.  Peep-sight responded to the invitation with such alacrity that almost instantly he had opened a gap of two full lengths between himself and Kay on Panchito.

Farrel and Parker, holding their stop-watches, watched the race from the judge’s stand.

“By Jove, that Peep-sight is a streak,” Parker declared admiringly.  “He can beat Panchito at that distance, even at proportionate weights and with an even break at the start.”

Farrel nodded, his father’s old racing-glass fixed on Allesandro and Kay.  The girl had “gathered” her mount; she was leaning low on his powerful neck and Farrel knew that she was talking to him, riding him out as he had never been ridden before.  And he was responding.  Foot by foot he closed the distance that Peep-sight had opened up, but within a hundred yards of the finish Allesandro again called upon his mount for some more of the same, and the gallant Peep-sight flattened himself perceptibly and held his own; nor could Panchito’s greatest efforts gain upon the flying half-breed a single inch.

“Bully for the Indian kid,” Parker yelled.  “Man, man, that’s a horse race.”

“They’ll never stop at the half-mile pole,” Farrel laughed.  “That race will be won by Panchito when Panchito wins it.  Ah, I told you so.”

“Well, Peep-sight wins at the half by one open length—­and the cholo boy is using a switch on him!”

“He’s through.  Panchito is gaining on him.  He’ll pass him at the three-quarter pole.”

“Right-o, Farrel.  Panchito wins by half a length at the three-quarter pole—­”

“I wish Kay would pull him up,” Farrel complained.  “He’s gone too far already and there she is still heading for home like the devil beating tan-bark . . . well, if she breaks him down she’s going to be out the grandest saddle animal in the state of California.  That’s all I have to say. . . .  Kay, Kay, girl, what’s the matter with you?  Pull him up . . . by the blood of the devil, she can’t pull him up.  She’s broken a rein and he’s making a run of it on his own.”

“Man, look at that horse go.”

“Man, look at him come!”

Panchito had swung into the home-stretch, his white face and white front legs rising and falling with the strong, steady rhythm of the horse whose stout heart refuses to acknowledge defeat, the horse who still has something left for a supreme effort at the finish.

“There is a true race-horse,” Parker cried exultantly.  “I once won a ten-thousand-dollar purse with a dog that wasn’t fit to appear on the same track with that Panchito.”