"We are all here," he answered, smiling, "including Jack. You need never worry about him again. You found him a sinner, and—"
"And he has become a saint?" she supplemented.
"Not exactly a saint," he answered, "but you have brought about a complete transformation in the man's life and character. Jack could never return to what he was, be sure of that!"
"Kelwin! Kelwin's ahead!" shouted a hoarse voice, above the noise of the crowd.
"Blank ye!" retorted another, "Bill Hines is ahead! I seen 'em turn fust!"
"Ye lie!" continued the first.
Away to the right, speeding around a curve in the race course, four horses were straining every muscle. Occasionally a cow-puncher would lift his quirt, and make it hum through the air, or lash the poor beast, already straining to its utmost speed.
For a few moments, the racers were concealed from view by a mass of rocks. When they emerged again, they were greeted by yells from bystanders. A cowlass, mounted on a spirited animal, was in the lead. She swore almost constantly at her horse, occasionally cutting him with her quirt.
Lord Kelwin, now somewhat sobered, made a close second; and Bill Hines and Bill Weeks were neck and neck behind the Irishman.
The crowd cheered and cheered.