Three hundred yards of the course remain. The bays, perfectly handled,
have gained at the bridge and in the descent to the ice, and are leading
the citizens' team by half a dozen sleigh lengths. Behind both comes
Baptiste. It is now or never for the pintos. The rattle of the trailing
box, together with the wild yelling of the crowd rushing down the bank,
excites the bronchos to madness, and, taking the bits in their teeth,
they do their first free running that day. Past the citizens' team like
a whirlwind they dash, clear the intervening space, and gain the flanks
of the bays. Can the bays hold them? Over them leans their driver,
plying for the first time the hissing lash. Only fifty yards more. The
miners begin to yell. But Baptiste, waving his lines high in one hand
seizes his tuque with the other, whirls it about his head and flings it
with a fiercer yell than ever at the bronchos. Like the bursting of a
hurricane the pintos leap forward, and with a splendid rush cross the
scratch, winners by their own length.
There was a wild quarter of an hour.
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