The Ramblin' Kid rode the mile more as an automaton than as a living, conscious human being. He had no memory of time, place, events—save for the instants of rationality he forced his will to bring.
Gradually, though, his mind was clearing.
But which was it—the first half?—the last half? How long had they been running? How many times had they gone around the track? He could not remember!
Down the straight stretch the racers came in a mighty whirlwind of speed.
"Thunderbolt is taking it!"
"The Y-Bar horse leads!"
"Th' black's got 'em!" roared from the throats of the crowd in the grandstand and the mass of humanity crushing the railing along the track.
Dorsey and Sabota leaped to the edge of the box as the horses thundered past the judges' stand. The voice of the owner of Thunderbolt shrieked out in a hoarse bellow:
"Hold him to it, Flip! Keep your lead—you've got the filly!"
The Ramblin' Kid heard again—or thought he heard again—the voice of the Vermejo cattleman. He caught, as an echo, a note of triumph in it. It was like a tonic to his drug-numbed faculties.