When the Indian rounded the half-way pole, and came onto the back stretch five lengths ahead of his rival, a yell broke from them.
They thought that perhaps after all the Indian might win, and that from the look of things it seemed very much as though the gray would win the race.
The Indian himself felt sure of it. He was certain that the white steed was doing its best, and that he could at least win by five lengths. And then he would have the pleasure of scalping the White Wizard.
He felt so sure of this that he yelled with joy.
Half the last half was done, and still he was five lengths ahead.
Suddenly a low whistle came from the lips of the pale-face.
It is a signal, and obeying it, the white steed quickly increased his speed. Like an arrow shot from the bow, the horse darted forward, gaining rapidly on the other.
The Indian began kicking and pounding his horse, yelling like a demon all the while, but it was no use.
The animal was running at its greatest speed, and nothing could increase it. The pale-face passed him before the last quarter was reached, and came up to the home-stake six lengths ahead.
A shout from the prisoners welcomed the victor.