"You're on," came from Carney.
And even as they bet the buckskin had lost a length.
Half-a-mile had been covered by the horses; three-quarters; and now it seemed to the watchers that the black was creeping up on Clatawa, the latter's rider, who had been almost invisible, riding Indian fashion lying along the back of his horse, was now in view; his shoulders were up. Surely a quirt had switched the air once.
Yes, the Toad was creeping up—his rider was making his run; they could see Texas's arms sway as he shook up his mount.
Why was the boy on the little buckskin riding like one asleep? Had he lost his whip—had he given up all idea of winning?
They were at the mile: but a short quarter away.
A moan went up from many throats, mixed with hoarse curses, for Clatawa was plainly in trouble; he was floundering; the monkey man on his back was playing the quirt against his ribs, the gyrations checking the horse instead of helping him.
And the Toad, galloping true and straight, was but a length behind.
Watching this battle, almost in hushed silence, gasping in the smothered tenseness, the throng went mentally blind to the little buckskin. Now somebody cried:
"God! look at the other one comin'! Look at him—lo-ook at him, men!"