y gray eyes for once
glittering with a steely light, urged Lady Jane up the Wexbridge hill.
From its top it was five miles to Ramble Valley by the main road. A
full mile ahead of him he saw Eben King, getting along through mud and
slush, and occasional big slumpy drifts of old snow, as fast as his
clean-limbed trotter could carry him. As a rule Eben was exceedingly
careful of his horses, but now he was sending Bay Billy along for all
that was in him.

For a second Bruce hesitated. Then he turned his mare down the field
cut to Malley's Creek. It was taking Lady Jane's life and possibly his
own in his hand, but it was his only chance. He could never have
overtaken Bay Billy on the main road.

"Do your best, Lady Jane," he muttered, and Lady Jane plunged down the
steep hillside, through the glutinous mud of a ploughed field as if
she meant to do it.

Beyond the field was a ravine full of firs, through which Malley's
Creek ran. To cross it meant a four-mile cut to Ramble Valley. The ice
looked black and rotten. To the left was the ragged hole where Jack
Carr's mare had struggled for her life. Bruce headed Lady Jane higher
up. If a crossing could be made at all it was only between Malley's
spring-hole and the old ice road. Lady Jane swerved at the bank and
whickered.

"On, old girl," said Bruce, in a tense voice. Unwillingly she
advanced, picking her steps with cat-like sagacity. Once her foot went
through, Bruce pulled her up with hands that did not tremble. The next
moment she was scrambling up the opposite bank. Glancing back, Bruce
saw the ice parting in her footprints and the black water gurgling up.

But the race was not yet decided. By crossing the creek he had won no
more than an equal chance with Eben King. And the field road before
him was much worse than the main road. There was little snow on it and
some bad sloughs. But Lady Jane was good for it. For once she should
not be spared.

Just as the red ball of the sun touched the wooded hills of the
valley, Mrs. Theodora, looking from the cowstable door, saw two
sleighs approaching, the horses of which were going at a gallop. One
was trundling down the main road, headlong through old drifts and
slumpy snow, where a false step might send the horse floundering to
the bottom. The other was coming up from the direction of the creek,
full tilt through Tony Mack's stump land, where not a vestige of snow
coated the huge roots over which the runners bumped.

For a