went to Sunday-school at the Frost Creek School. To-day he had
ostensibly started for there. But this was very different from the old
log school-house.

How different Job looked from the rest! He wore "store clothes" and a
neck-tie. In the rush, something dropped on the floor. He looked down
and picked it up, with a quick glance around, while a great lump came
into his throat. It was a little Testament, his mother's, the one she
had given him the day she died, and there was the old temperance
pledge he had signed in a boy's scrawling hand. He was supposed to be
at Sunday-school, so he had been obliged to carry the book.

For a moment he hesitated, then he jammed it in his pocket out of
sight. He hated it, he hated himself. The step was taken; he took the
glass, he drank with the rest. He left the bar with a proud air. He
was a man. He would win that race or die.

* * * * *

All day long the violin squeaked, the clattering feet resounded on the
barn floor, the kegs were emptied into throats, and races of all
kinds--fat men's races, women's races, old men's races--followed each
other. At last, the great event was called--Malden's mare against
Pete's noted plunger. The Vaqueros cleared the way, a pistol shot in
the distance announced they had started, a cloud of dust that they
were coming. It was not a trot; it was a neck-and-neck run, such as
Job had taken hundreds of times over the great pasture lot on Pine
Tree Ranch. He was perfectly at home. With arms clasped around her
neck, he urged Bess on; he sang, he coaxed, he cheered her. Bess knew
that voice, and, catching the passion of the hour, fairly flew. Faster
and faster she went, but faster and faster came Pete at her heels--now
Job felt the hot breath of the other horse on his cheek--now they fell
back--now they were close behind him. They were near the line--but a
hundred paces and the old oak would be passed. Pete was desperate; the
fire of anger was in his eyes. Job heard one of Pete's excited friends
shout, "Throw him, Pete!" The thought of awful danger flew through
Job's mind: The angry man would do it--Bess must go faster. She was
white with foam now, but go she must. He hugged her closer; he
sang--how out of place the piece seemed! 'Twas the song, though, that
always roused her, so he sang it, as so often be had sung it in the
great oak pasture of the home ranch--"Palms of victory, crowns of
glory I shall wear,"--and, singing