"I want you to ride my horse in this race," said my father.
"All right," replied the lad, taking off his school uniform. In a moment he was ready, stripped naked, with only a breech cloth.
Taking the reins and grasping the horse by the mane, Brush attempted to spring on his back, but the animal, all excited, trotted round and round. Father seized him by the bit, Brush lifted his right foot, father caught it, and in a twinkling the boy was on the horse. The mount was superb; the fiery creature sprang forward at a brisk gallop, but was checked by a skilled hand.
"Give him a canter a short distance; he'll quiet down," said father. Brush did so and soon returned, the horse prancing about most gracefully.
The course was on the bottom and as smooth as a floor. The twelve horses which were to run were taken to the farther end, about a mile away, and with them went the two men who were to manage the race. When the horses reached the starting point, they were ranged in line, and their riders were told to gallop them slowly and evenly to a point marked on the course. The two men rode along to see that the line was kept fairly; when the marked place was reached, the men shouted, "Ah—hu!" then every boy put his horse on the run.
To us on the hill, the horses looked like small specks in the distance; but, by the sudden rising of a cloud of dust, we knew when the signal was given to run. For a time they were too far away for us to distinguish those in the lead; but, as the horses came nearer, we began to recognize them; two in the front were well ahead, neck and neck.
"It's the roan!" shouted a tall man.
"No, it's the bald face!" cried another.
"Hurrah! Brush is in the lead!" yelled the freckled-faced white boy, swinging his ragged hat in the air as he ran up to where I was standing. "Gee whiz! look at him! look at him! My! I wish I could ride like that!"