Gamely she responded and forged ahead—the old pacer was beaten!
They thundered along, Travis whipping his mare at every stride. She stood it like the standard-bred she was, and never winced, then she forged ahead farther, and farther, and held the old pacer anchored at her wheels, and the wire not fifty feet away!
There was nothing left for the old man to do—with tears streaming down his cheeks he shouted—“Ben Butler, Ben Butler—it's God's way—the chastening rod—” and his whip fell like a blade of fire on the old horse's flank.
It stung him to madness. The Bishop striking him, the old man he loved, and who never struck! He shook his great ugly head like a maddened bull and sprang savagely at the wire, where the silken thing flaunted in his face in a burst of speed that left all behind. Nor could the old man stop him after he shot past it, for his flank fluttered like a cyclone of fire and presently he went down on his knees—gently, gently, then—he rolled over!
His driver jumped to the ground. It was all he knew except he heard Bud weeping as he knelt on the ground where the old horse lay, and saying: “Great hoss—great hoss!”
Then he remembered saying: “Now, Bud, don't cry—if he does die, won't it be glorious, to die in harness, giving his life for others—Cap'n Tom—Shiloh? Think of it, Bud, to die at the wire, his race won, his work finished, the crown his! O Bud, who would not love to go like Ben Butler?”
But he could not talk any more, for he saw Jack Bracken spring forward, and then the gleam of a whiskey flask gleamed above Ben Butler's fluttering nostrils and Jack's terrible gruff voice said: “Wait till he's dead fust. Stand back, give him air,” and his great hat fluttered like a windmill as he fanned the gasping nostrils of the struggling horse.
The old man turned with an hysterical sob in his throat that was half a shout of joy.
Travis stood by him watching the struggles of the old horse for breath.
“Well, I've killed him,” he said, laconically.