leaped before, that first day when Shandon
and Big Bill had come upon him, Little Saxon leaped now. And as he
landed his hind feet sent a rattle of stones down into the hungering
gulf below.

There had been a silence as of death. Now there was a shout that
drowned the roar of the river robbed of its prey. Men yelled and threw
their arms up and yelled again.

On came Endymion carrying Sledge Hume who had at last understood and
who now was riding with bloody spurs and a quirt that cut in swift
vicious blows at his horse's sweating hide.

On came Little Saxon, snorting his defiance to his brother, Red
Reckless sitting straight in the saddle, his spurs clean.

Quick hands had run the taut string across the end of the course. Two
big horses carrying two big men shot across it. But the breast of one
had struck a dozen lengths ahead of the other, and through the echoing
babel the judge's voice was lost as he shouted:

"Wayne Shandon on Little Saxon wins!"

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAUGHTER OF HELGA STRAWN

"Will you tell your mistress," Sledge Hume commanded, "that I want to
speak with her immediately? Immediately, do you hear?"

The capable looking maid favoured him with swift, keen scrutiny,
noticed that Endymion, tied to the gate post, was sweating and dust
covered, saw that Hume was dusty from riding and that his eyes were
full of purpose, and went upon her errand. Hume stalked into the
living room where he had grown to be so much at home, and driving his
hands into his pockets stood frowning out of the window through which
the warm fragrant June air came in from the sunny fields.

With the determination in his eyes there was the unhidden, black anger
that had not been absent from them during the man's waking hours for a
week. The spirit under the hard shell of a cool indifference had been
touched, and was raw and quivering beneath the lashes his fate had
brought upon him. On the day of the races he had lost five thousand
dollars that he could ill afford to lose, and with it counted that he
had lost another five thousand which he had told himself had always
been as good as his. He had shown men that he was a bad loser, by
flying into an ungovernable rage that vented its fury upon Endymion
until savage voices cried to him to hold his quirt or he would be
jerked from the saddle. He had seen that the slow turning tables were
turning at last. He had seen Wayne Shandon, the man always in his way,
white