y other horses on
the track, while around the enclosure he saw gathered row on row of men
and women. A band was playing and flags were snapping in the breeze.
There was a thrill of expectation in the air. Black Eagle felt it, and
as he pranced proudly down the track there was lifted a murmur of
applause and appreciation which made his nerves tingle strangely.

Just how it all came about the big stallion did not fully understand at
the time. He heard a bell ring sharply, heard also the shouts of men,
and suddenly found himself flying down the course in company with a
dozen other horses and riders. They had finished half the circle before
Black Eagle fully realized that a gaunt, long-barrelled bay was not only
leading him but gaining with every leap. Tossing his black mane in the
wind, opening his bright nostrils and pointing his thin, close set ears
forward he swung into the long prairie stride which he was wont to use
when leading his wild band. A half dozen leaps brought him abreast the
gaunt bay, and then, feeling Lefty's knees pressing his shoulders and
hearing Lefty's voice whispering words of encouragement in his ears,
Black Eagle dashed ahead to rush down through the lane of frantically
shouting spectators, winner by a half dozen lengths.

That was the beginning of Black Eagle's racing career. How it
progressed, how he won races and captured purses in a seemingly endless
string of victories unmarred by a single defeat, that is part of the
turf records of the South and West.

There had to be an end, of course. Owners of carefully bred running
horses took no great pleasure, you may imagine, in seeing so many rich
prizes captured by a half-wild branded stallion of no known pedigree,
and ridden by a silent, square-jawed cowboy. So they sent East for a
"ringer." He came from Chicago in a box-car with two grooms and he was
entered as an unknown, although in the betting ring the odds posted were
one to five on the stranger. Yet it was a grand race. This alleged
unknown, with a suppressed record of victories at Sheepshead, Bennings,
and The Fort, did no more than shove his long nose under the wire a bare
half head in front of Black Eagle's foam-flecked muzzle.

It was sufficient. The once wild stallion knew when he was beaten. He
had done his best and he had lost. His high pride had been humbled, his
fierce spirit broken. No more did the course hold for him any pleasure,
no more could he be thrilled by the cries of spe