Bess stood alone near the track, her hands clasped together. Not even a cry escaped her lips as she saw, not West, but Mauchacho win the race.
As soon as West could slow the horse and bring him back before the judges, he heard the starter announce that “West had won the race.” West sprang to the ground, gave the reins to a man standing near, and entered the judges’ stand.
“I did not win this race, gentlemen; I had no right to take a fresh horse; the money goes to Nedreau and Louie,” and before they could offer any protest he had gone. As he led Mauchacho over to the waiting and now smiling mistress, West paused a moment as he heard the announcement of the correction of the race, and felt relieved as he saw the two Indians receive the prize.
Bess flung her arms about Mauchacho’s neck and happy tears filled her eyes. “You beauty! I had no idea that you could go so like a bird! Oh, you dear!” and she patted his neck and kissed his nose just as the men threw a blanket over him and led him away to be cooled off.
Henry West was just about to take Bess back to her companions, when he turned and directly faced Dave Davis.
“Come, Bess—permit me to take you away from here. What prompted you to do such a strange thing? Besides, the race was unfair and West did not win,” he said, as he glanced with lowering eyes at the man by her side.
“It may not have been fair, Mr. Davis, but it was a mighty fine race! I will go back to Mrs. West with Henry, thank you,” and she gave him a queer smile as she left him, which he did not quite understand.
“Please, little Mother—now, James, don’t both of you look so. I just had to have Henry win that race, even though it took Mauchacho and me both to help him do it!”
“Well, sister, we can’t truthfully call you a tenderfoot any longer.”
“How long have you been in the West, Miss Fletcher?” asked one of the company, as he looked at the happy, satisfied expression on the girl’s face. Bess turned her full, brown eyes to the man’s face, but for the moment she did not speak. Unconsciously she had slid her fingers into Henry West’s brown hand as he stood near to her, but did not heed its tremor nor faint pressure. Then her eyes sought the deep, blue hills with the soft masses of white, fleecy clouds crowning their crests and the verdant pines caressing their feet.