The Shawnee lifted his head proudly.
“The red man will win,” said he. “His eye is like the eagle’s, his hand as steady as the head of a rattlesnake before it strikes.”
The glance of the master of ceremonies ran along the line of horsemen. Then he pointed to a lone tree far down the river trail from which a flag was flying.
“You ride to that, around it, and back,” said he. “And now, when I drop my hat, you start.”
Once more the glance went along the line to assure him that all was still as it should be. Then the hat fell.
With a rush the horses shot forward along the trail; a cloud of dust overhung them and it was hard to tell who led or who trailed in the rear. Then little by little the compactness of the mass was lost; the runners began to stretch out, the swift going to the front, and the others falling back. At the flag the dust ascended in a great column; then the riders were seen plunging through it on the way to the finish.
“Long Panther in the lead!” cried Eph Taylor, straining his eyes to make out the contestants. “And he’s riding like as if he was part of the horse.”
“I don’t see anything of young Noll,” said Boone.
Sandy Campbell was trying to keep the sun out of his eyes by holding his outspread hands over them; he searched the dusty cloud as it rolled toward them.
“I see him!” he shouted, in high excitement. “I see him!”