And he was responding. Foot
by foot he closed the distance that Peep-sight had opened up, but
within a hundred yards of the finish Allesandro again called upon his
mount for some more of the same, and the gallant Peep-sight flattened
himself perceptibly and held his own; nor could Panchito's greatest
efforts gain upon the flying half-breed a single inch.
"Bully for the Indian kid," Parker yelled. "Man, man, that's a horse
race."
"They'll never stop at the half-mile pole," Farrel laughed. "That race
will be won by Panchito when Panchito wins it. Ah, I told you so."
"Well, Peep-sight wins at the half by one open length--and the _cholo_
boy is using a switch on him!"
"He's through. Panchito is gaining on him. He'll pass him at the
three-quarter pole."
"Right-o, Farrel. Panchito wins by half a length at the three-quarter
pole--"
"I wish Kay would pull him up," Farrel complained. "He's gone too far
already and there she is still heading for home like the devil beating
tan-bark . . . well, if she breaks him down she's going to be out the
grandest saddle animal in the state of California. That's all I have
to say. . . . Kay, Kay, girl, what's the matter with you? Pull him up
. . . by the blood of the devil, she can't pull him up. She's broken a
rein and he's making a run of it on his own."
"Man, look at that horse go."
"Man, look at him come!"
Panchito had swung into the home-stretch, his white face and white
front legs rising and falling with the strong, steady rhythm of the
horse whose stout heart refuses to acknowledge defeat, the horse who
still has something left for a supreme effort at the finish.
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