ep snow, and before they could
regain the road, the bays had swept superbly past, leaving their
rivals to follow in the rear. On came the pintos, swiftly nearing the
Fort. Surely at that pace they cannot make the turn. But Sandy knows
his leaders. They have their eyes upon the teams in front, and need no
touch of rein. Without the slightest change in speed the nimble-footed
bronchos round the turn, hauling the big roans after them, and fall in
behind the citizens' team, which is regaining steadily the ground lost
in the turn.

7. And now the struggle is for the bridge over the ravine. The bays in
front, running with mouths wide open, are evidently doing their best;
behind them, and every moment nearing them, but at the limit of their
speed too, come the lighter and fleeter citizens' team; while opposite
their driver are the pintos, pulling hard, eager and fresh. Their
temper is too uncertain to send them to the front; they run well
following, but when leading cannot be trusted, and besides, a broncho
hates a bridge; so Sandy holds them where they are, waiting and hoping
for his chance after the bridge is crossed. Foot by foot the citizens'
team creep up upon the flank of the bays, with the pintos in turn
hugging them closely, till it seems as if the three, if none slackens,
must strike the bridge together; and this will mean destruction to one
at least. This danger Sandy perceives, but he dare not check his
leaders. Suddenly, within a few yards of the bridge, Baptiste throws
himself upon the lines, wrenches them out of Sandy's hands, and, with
a quick swing, forces the pintos down the steep side of the ravine,
which is almost sheer ice with a thin coat of snow. It is a daring
course to take, for the ravine, though not deep, is full of
undergrowth, and is partially closed up by a brush heap at the further
end. But with a yell, Baptiste hurls his four horses down the slope,
and into the undergrowth. "Allons, mes enfants! Courage! vite, vite!"
cries their driver, and nobly do the pintos respond. Regardless of
bushes and brush heaps, they tear their way through; but as they
emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches a root, and, with a crash, the
sleigh is hurled high into the air. Baptiste's cries ring out high and
shrill as ever, encouraging his team, and never cease till, with a
plunge and a scramble, they clear the brush heap lying at the mouth of
the ravine, and are out on the ice on the river, with Baptiste
standing on the