It was a scene full of life and vividly picturesque. There
were miners in dark clothes and peak caps; citizens in ordinary garb;
ranchmen in wide cowboy hats and buckskin shirts and leggings, some
with cartridge-belts and pistols; a few half-breeds and Indians in
half-native, half-civilised dress; and scattering through the crowd the
lumbermen with gay scarlet and blue blanket coats, and some with knitted
tuques of the same colours. A very good-natured but extremely uncertain
crowd it was. At the head of each horse stood a man, but at the pintos'
heads Baptiste stood alone, trying to hold down the off leader, thrown
into a frenzy of fear by the yelling of the crowd.
Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute stillness,
came the words, 'Are you ready?', then the pistol-shot and the great
race had begun. Above the roar of the crowd came the shrill cry of
Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of his hand, and swung
himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it shot past.
Like a flash the bronchos sprang to the front, two lengths before the
other teams; but, terrified by the yelling of the crowd, instead of
bending to the left bank up which the road wound, they wheeled to the
right and were almost across the river before Sandy could swing them
back into the course.
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