He went up to Lightning and took hold of his mane; and Lightning put his nose toward the ground and smelt of the earth without touching it, then reared his head very high, and snorted so loudly that the sound echoed from the next hill. Dart did the same. John Spring stooped down to examine the spot where Lightning had smelled. In a moment he raised himself up, and the countenance of the man was changed. His strength failed him, and he sidled against Lightning.
At length John Spring recovered from his stupor and exclaimed, “It was an ox! I told you it was an ox. No real horse ever yet beat Lightning.”
And now, on a close inspection of the black horse’s tracks in the path, it was evident to every one that the forefeet of the black horse were cloven. Notwithstanding these appearances, to me it was evident that the strange horse was in reality a horse. Yet when the people left the race-ground, I presume one half of all those present would have testified that a large black ox had distanced two of the fleetest coursers that ever trod the Virginia turf. So uncertain are all things called historical facts.
While I was proceeding to my lodgings, pondering on the events of the day, a stranger rode up to me, and accosted me thus,—“I think your name is Dunwell, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Did I not see you a year or two since in Boston, at the Marlborough Hotel?”
“Very likely, sir, for I was there.”
“And you heard a story about one Peter Rugg?”
“I recollect it all,” said I.
“The account you heard in Boston must be true, for here he was to-day. The man has found his way to Virginia, and for aught that appears, has been to Cape Horn. I have seen him before to-day, but never saw him travel with such fearful velocity. Pray, sir, where does Peter Rugg spend his winters, for I have seen him only in summer, and always in foul weather, except this time?”