"Here's a good place for a race," cried Jim, "before we get into the foot hills."
"We had better be saving our ponies," growled Tom, "rather than racing them to death. We are a long way from 'The Grand Canyon of the Colorado' yet."
"That's all right, Tommy," replied Jim, "the ponies can rest long enough when we get to the Colorado River. The trouble with you is that you are afraid of being beaten. That's what's worrying you."
"I'll show you," replied Tom, belligerently.
"I will start you," suggested the captain, "where is the finish?"
"The Colorado River," I laughed.
"It's that big pine standing out there alone," said Jim.
"It looks to be a quarter of a mile," said Tom, "but we will probably reach it by evening; this clear air is very deceiving."
We now proceeded to get in line. Our bronchos were as restive as fleas. They were the ponies we had captured from the Indians. Mine was a buck-skin. Tough as rawhide and tireless as a jack rabbit.
Jim's was a light bay with a white face and wall eyed. Three of his feet were marked white. He was a vicious brute at times and only Jim could manage him. But he certainly could run.